Page 8 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Before he could come up with some sort of response, something to redeem himself—although he had no fucking clue why he gave a damn about the opinion of a woman he barely knew and didn’t plan on getting to know—she was on the move, the waves lapping at her knees, then her ankles as she headed for shore. His eyes tracked her as she walked away, the subtle sway of her hips making things stir south of the border.

When she was out of sight, he turned and dived headfirst into the rippling water. He surfaced and swam parallel to the shore, pounding through the waves with confident, powerful strokes. He wasn’t sure what he hoped it would accomplish more, cooling down his overactive sex drive or washing away his sins.

Unfortunately, it did neither.

Failing to protect Beth. Choosing his work over their son. Lusting after Mallory. A little swim in the surf, no matter how punishing, wasn’t going to erase all that.

Not that it stopped him from trying.

…

“What’s that?” A four-year-old nose wrinkled and eyes the same warm chestnut as their owner’s father’s narrowed at the plate Mallory placed on the eat-in counter.

“French toast.” She turned briefly to the stove to flip another slice of thickly battered brioche bread before swiveling back to face the little boy who was her responsibility until further notice. “Mrs. Flannigan says it’s your favorite.”

Oliver wrinkled his nose again and pushed the plate away. “That’s not French toast. French toast isn’t fat. And it doesn’t have strawberries on it. I hate strawberries.”

What kid doesn’t like strawberries?

Oliver crossed his scrawny arms over his bony chest, hiding the Captain America logo on his pajamas, and glared at her with an intensity that rivaled his father’s.

This kid, apparently.Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to send Mrs. Flannigan away.

No, she had this. The poor woman had enough to do without having to watch over them like a mother hen. And Mallory had dealt with more than her fair share of tough customers at the Worthington. Handling a picky preschooler couldn’t be that different. Could it?

She inched the plate back toward him. “It’s brioche bread. That’s why it’s so thick. And I can take the strawberries off. Or give you another slice.”

Oliver shook his head, his glare not losing one bit of its ferocity. She’d only met him a few minutes ago, but she could already tell he was Rhys Dalton’s mini-me, from the eyes to the attitude. “I hate bee-yotch bread.”

Mallory swallowed a laugh and fought hard to keep the corners of her mouth from curling. “Brioche. And how do you know you hate it if you haven’t tried it?”

He cocked his head. “How do you know I haven’t tried it?”

Damn.The kid had her there. Pretty solid logic for a four-year-old. Another trait no doubt passed down from his no-nonsense father.

This called for a little negotiation.

She turned back to the stove, flicked the now perfectly toasted brioche from the pan onto a plate, and swapped it with the one on the counter before shutting off the burner. “Tell you what. Try one piece. Just one. And if you don’t like it, I’ll make you thin French toast, like you’re used to.”

It would kill her to use the glue-flavored, mass-produced crap most people thought of as bread, but if the way to Oliver’s heart was through his stomach, she’d swallow her master-chef pride and make the kid what he wanted.

He rested his elbows on the counter and put his chin in his hands. “How big of a piece?”

She held up two fingers about an inch apart. “This big.”

He frowned and held up two fingers of his own with half an inch between them. “This big. With syrup. The real kind, in the glass bottle Mrs. Flannigan brought back from New Hamster.”

Mallory found herself battling back another grin. “I think you mean New Hampshire.”

“She and Mr. Flannigan went there on their second honeymoon to look at the leaves. And you have to heat it up in the microwave like she does.”

Kid drove a hard bargain. She stuck out a hand for him to shake. “Deal.”

He took it, his small hand disappearing in hers but his grip surprisingly strong. “Deal.”

She found a bottle shaped like a maple leaf in the refrigerator, poured some into a ceramic creamer, and put it in the microwave, setting the timer for thirty seconds. When it dinged, she took out the creamer and slid it across the counter to Oliver.

His eyes widened. “Aren’t you going to pour it for me? Mrs. Flannigan always does.”