Page 18 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“You wouldn’t.” He stared her down, the slight upward tilt of his lips undercutting his serious tone.

She stared right back, an equally saucy smile spreading across her face. “I would.”

“I’d believe her if I were you,” Oliver piped up in solidarity. “She’s nice, but strict. She wouldn’t let me play video games last night until I brushed my teeth.”

“I won’t touch it until after dinner. Scout’s honor.” Collins held up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute and set off to do whatever was next on his undoubtedly long list of daily duties, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Good luck.”

The hallway grew eerily silent in his wake. Mallory raised her free hand, poised to knock on the now-closed door.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asked in a stage whisper after a long, awkward moment.

“I’m fine.” With both hands occupied, she had to settle for mentally crossing her fingers at the lie. She took a deep breath, willed herself to adopt her sister’s no-holds-barred, leap-without-a-net philosophy, and knocked.

“Come in.”

Rhys’s clipped tone brought her back to their first meeting. Not a memory she particularly wanted to revisit. No one looked fondly back on being fired, even if it was by the first man to make her hormones sit up and take notice since—well, ever. She thought briefly about cutting and running. But he’d heard her knock. It was too late to turn back now.

A tug on her arm made her look down.

“It’s okay.” Oliver’s wide eyes, the same rich shade of brandy brown as his father’s, held a wistful, knowing look no almost-five-year-old should possess. “Daddy’s not mad. He sounds mad a lot since Mommy died. But he doesn’t mean it. He’s just sad.”

It hadn’t taken her long to fall for this sweet, sensitive, lonely little boy who reminded her so much of herself as a child. Both isolated from the world around them, him by an overprotective father, her courtesy of the big C. Her heart swelled, pressing against her ribs until she was sure it would explode.

“How did you get so smart?”

“I dunno.” Oliver lifted a bony shoulder. “Mrs. Flannigan says it’s because I’m only allowed to watch half an hour of TV a day.”

Mallory suppressed a smile. “That must be it.”

She reached for the doorknob, her confidence buoyed by Oliver’s words—it was true what they said about wisdom coming from of the mouths of babes—but before she could grab it the door swung open and Rhys stood framed in the entryway. She was relieved to see his serious scowl soften the slightest bit at the sight of his son.

“Is something wrong?” His concerned eyes raked Oliver, then her, as if checking for blood or bandages or other obvious signs of distress.

She held up the hamper. “We thought you might like to join us for a picnic.”

Okay, so that was a major overstatement. More like she didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to predict he’d brush off their invitation, and she had every intention of using every low-down trick in the book to change his mind, up to and including kidnapping.

She gave Oliver a discreet nudge, and his face fell into an expression so forlorn it would have melted even the hardest of hearts.

“Please, Dad? Mallory made your favorite. Fried chicken and potato salad. And I helped peel the potatoes.”

Rhys’s gaze shifted from his son to her and his scowl reappeared, creasing his forehead. “Is that safe?”

“Under supervision. Oliver’s a big help in the kitchen.” She laid a hand on her pint-sized sous chef’s shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

Oliver looked up at her, a crooked grin splitting his face and revealing the gap where he’d lost a tooth that morning. “You bet.”

“You lost a tooth,” Rhys observed.

“Yep.” Oliver proudly poked his tongue through the empty space. “My first one. Mallory says the tooth fairy’s going to come tonight, and if I put my tooth under my pillow she’ll leave me twenty dollars. We made a special box out of a dollar bill to help her find it.”

“Right,” Mallory added, jumping on the lost-tooth bandwagon. The kid was a freaking genius. Why hadn’t she thought of this angle before? “And we’re having a picnic. To celebrate.”

“Twenty dollars, huh?” Rhys leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. Mallory tried to ignore the way the sleeves of his polo stretched over his well-formed biceps. “Pretty steep.”

She shrugged. “Inflation.”

“Well, a lost tooth does sound like cause for celebration,” Rhys conceded, looking down at Oliver. His normally steely eyes flashed soft with obvious affection. “Especially your first one.”