Page 10 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Would you like some French toast?” she asked, staring at a button in the middle of his chest. Seemed as safe a place to look as any other. “I can whip up another batch.”

He didn’t say anything for a long, torturous moment, the awkward silence forcing her gaze up the strong column of his tanned throat and past his freshly shaven, chiseled jaw until her eyes locked with his. The cool appraisal in their chocolate depths shook her to the core, and she sucked in a quick breath.

What was wrong with her? He was just a guy. Okay, an extraordinarily good-looking guy. Like eleven-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten good-looking. But she’d spent her life surrounded by “the beautiful people,” as her sister called them. Why did this guy have to be the one who made her girlie parts wake up and do the Macarena?

“He never eats breakfast,” Oliver piped up, his youthful high-pitched voice cutting through the sexual tension that had descended on the room like a thick fog. At least, she thought it was sexual tension. Maybe it was completely one-sided, and Rhys Dalton was mentally counting the days until he could get rid of her. “Right, Dad?”

“Just coffee for me,” Rhys finally answered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Black.”

She broke his gaze and stood, losing the battle of wills but determined to win the war. Her appetite gone, she took her plate to the sink and scraped the remains of her French toast into the disposal. “You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?”

“That’s what Grover says onSesame Street,” Oliver added in between bites, his plate almost empty. “He can’t be Super Grover until he eats his breakfast.”

Mallory shot him a thumbs-up for having her back.

“I’ll take it under advisement. But for now, coffee will do. I have a Skype session with one of our design engineers in fifteen minutes and a lot of material to go over before then.”

Rhys ruffled his son’s hair as he crossed past him on the way to the rack of K-Cups on the counter next to the Keurig machine, and her insides did a funny little flip. Something about the small, affectionate gesture gave her all the feels. It was hard to reconcile with his aloofness the night before, and for the second time that morning, she questioned her rush to judgment.

The man was a hot mess of maddening contradictions. Working for him would be one heck of a challenge. But it was one she desperately wanted the chance to conquer, if for no other reason than to prove to herself she could succeed on her own, outside the sphere of her parents’ influence, without any special treatment because of a disease she’d had—and beaten—years ago.

She opened the cabinet next to the sink and reached for a mug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when ten o’clock rolls around and you can’t focus on anything but your stomach grumbling.”

“My stomach doesn’t grumble. And I never lose focus.”

He went to take the cup from her, and their fingers brushed. The brief contact was like touching a live wire, making her jerk back and sending the mug clattering to the floor, where it shattered on the hard tiles.

“I’m sorry.” She bent and started picking up the shards. “I’m not always such a klutz.”

“I’ll help.” Oliver hopped down from his stool, his bare feet slapping the terra-cotta.

“No,” Rhys snapped, holding up a hand and freezing his son in his tracks. “I’ve got this. You two go upstairs and get ready for the beach.”

“Are you sure?” Mallory surveyed the damage. Ceramic slivers all over the floor. Counter covered in syrup. Dirty dishes in the sink. Her fault, and her responsibility to fix.

“Please,” Rhys hissed, inclining his head toward Oliver. “Before he hurts himself.”

“Right.” Some nanny she was turning out to be, putting her feelings before Oliver’s safety.

“Come on.” The little boy stuck out a sticky hand to her. “I want to build a sandcastle and catch hermit crabs and go swimming in the pool. Then you can make me grilled cheese for lunch. On bee-yotch bread. Okay?”

“Okay.” She stepped gingerly across the kitchen, tossed the remnants she’d collected into the trash, and took Oliver’s grubby hand. The morning hadn’t been a complete disaster. She’d gained his trust. And turned him on to brioche bread.

She only hoped the father was as easy to win over as the son.