Page 65 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Mallory stared into her glass, pretending to be fascinated by the bubbles in her champagne. It was too much to take in all at once. Brooke and Eli. Her father’s abrupt attitude adjustment. Her feelings for Rhys. “I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me.”

“I won’t ask what happened in Florida.” She started to protest, but her father held up his hand. “Don’t bother denying it. You haven’t been the same since you came home.”

He stiffened suddenly, his face blanching. “You’re not sick again, are you?”

“I’m fine, Dad.” She put a hand over his and squeezed. “My last checkup was cancer-free.”

“Thank God.” His whole posture relaxed, and some of the color returned to his cheeks. He leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a look of deep concern she’d experienced countless times throughout her childhood, usually from a hospital bed. “I want you to know there will always be a place for you here at the Worthington.”

She squeezed his hand again. “I know, Dad. And that means a lot to me.”

Not that she was going back there any time soon. She’d already had several offers from the staffing agency, and she was weighing her options. She was even considering opening her own business. Maybe something with kids in the kitchen. Oliver had loved it when they’d cooked together. Whatever she wound up doing, she wasn’t about to give up her newfound independence, not after what it had cost her.

Her heart.

“But if you’ve got unfinished business with this Dalton fellow…” Her father let the sentence hang.

Mallory almost choked on her champagne. “Why would I have unfinished business with Rhys?”

Her father arched an aristocratic brow. “On a first-name basis, are you?”

She blushed and drained her drink.

“Heaven knows I’m not one to give advice to the lovelorn,” he went on, risking a glance at her mother, who had finished with the poor photographer and moved on to some hapless waiter, wagging a finger in his face, no doubt berating him for some minor transgression.

Mallory wondered not for the first time what her parents saw in each other. They acted more like business partners or not-so-polite strangers than lovers. With an example like that, it was a miracle either one of their daughters was in a healthy, committed relationship.

She supposed it was too much to hope for lightning to strike twice.

“I’m not lovelorn,” she lied, wishing her glass weren’t empty. Her eyes flickered around the room, trying to catch the one of the waitstaff. Instead, they landed on a familiar three-and-a-half-foot towhead. She blinked and shook her head to clear it, certain her mind was playing tricks on her.

Nope. There he was, as real as the cake she’d spent half the night decorating, running toward her and calling her name.

She jumped up, almost tipping over her chair. “Oliver?”

“Mallory.” The little boy launched himself at her, wrapping his arms around her legs.

Her father rose beside her and cleared his throat. “Who is this young man?”

“I’m Oliver Trent Dalton.” He released Mallory and stuck out a hand to her father, looking like a heartbreaking miniature of his father in a navy-blue polo shirt, perfectly creased khakis, and shiny cordovan loafers.

“Dalton, eh?” Her father took the boy’s eager hand in his and shook it, shooting a questioning sideways glance at Mallory. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Really, Mallory.” Her mother reappeared, lips pursed, her ire transferred from the hapless waiter to her youngest daughter. She glared at Mallory, then at Oliver, then back at Mallory again. “The invitation clearly said adults only.”

Mallory ignored her, kneeling so she was eye level with Oliver. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, and she wiped her suddenly damp palms on her skirt. Questions spilled from her trembling lips like chocolate from the four-tiered fountain in the center of the room. “What are you doing here? How did you get to New York? Where’s your father?”

“He’s right here.”

That voice. Deep, rich, and utterly male. It never failed to send a thrill quivering through her body, and this time was no exception.

She dragged her eyes upward to see Rhys, dressed almost identically to his son, hands in the pockets of his khakis. His handsome face looked haggard, as if he hadn’t been sleeping any better than she had since she left Flamingo Key. But his whiskey eyes were as sharp and clear as always. They locked on hers, sucking the air out of her.

“And he’s not leaving until you hear what he came to say.”

…

This was not how Rhys had envisioned this moment.