Page 21 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

She moved the picnic basket onto the blanket, apparently unaffected by his even-shittier-than-usual attitude, and started to unpack. There was the fried chicken and potato salad Oliver promised but also stuffed tomatoes, grilled zucchini, something on skewers, a giant bowl of mixed fruit, and mini mason jars filled with what looked like some sort of pudding and topped with whipped cream, which he assumed were for dessert. The food seemed to keep on coming, like she was Mary freaking Poppins and the hamper was the equivalent of her magic carpetbag.

“You were busy,” she said, not bothering to look at him and instead handing one of the skewers to Oliver, who began taking it apart and popping bits of lunch meat, cheese, and olives into his mouth. “Besides, would you have said no?”

Fuck no. Despite what some said about his business practices, he wasn’t completely without compassion. Especially where his son was concerned. But this was no time for weakness, and he wasn’t about to admit she was right.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve for an at-will employee.” Rhys claimed a spot on the other side of the blanket and sat.

“Thanks.” She beamed at him, and he was struck by the almost unnatural color of her eyes. A brown so pale they were almost gold, with flecks of green around her irises. How was it he hadn’t noticed before? “I’ve been working on my nerve.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.” He had to force himself to look away from those unusual, hypnotizing eyes. To distract himself, he grabbed a drumstick and bit into it.

Holy hell. “Delicious” wasn’t a good enough word to describe what was happening inside his mouth. The thick, craggy crust crunched between his teeth. Underneath, the meat was moist and tender. A rivulet of juice dribbled past his lips, and he licked it off before it could escape. Was this what he’d been missing out on by hiding in his office, sneaking into the kitchen after mealtime to make himself sad sandwiches?

“Hey,” Mallory squealed, breaking him out of his food-induced euphoria. “That’s the main course. You can’t skip the appetizers.”

“It’s anti-pasta on a stick.” Oliver held up what was left of his skewer proudly. “I made them.”

“Antipasto,” Mallory corrected, reaching for the drumstick. Rhys pulled it back.

“One more move like that and you’re fired.” He brought the drumstick back up to his waiting mouth, sank his teeth into the crispy skin, and moaned. “You’re going to have to pry this out of my hands with a crowbar.”

“You can’t fire Mallory.” Oliver stepped between them, her tiny self-appointed protector, brandishing his now-empty skewer at Rhys like a sword. “Then who’d make more chicken?”

Busted.Rhys had to hand it to his son. His logic was infallible.

“Put that down.” Mallory laid a hand on the boy’s forearm and lowered it. “Your father was only kidding. Weren’t you?”

The last was directed at him with an arched brow. Rhys nodded. “Of course I was. Now let’s eat. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can swim.”

…

“I’m stuffed.”Oliver flopped onto his back and let out a loud burp.

“Say excuse me,” Rhys scolded him, spooning the last of his key lime and raspberry pie into his mouth.

Mallory put what little was left of their lunch back into the basket. She’d forgotten how much growing boys could eat. And grown boys, too. Rhys had polished off three—no, four— pieces of chicken by himself. And still had room for dessert. “Burping is considered polite in parts of India, China, and Bahrain. It’s a sign of appreciation for being well fed.”

“Bahrain?” Rhys licked his spoon, dropped it into his empty mason jar, and handed them to her.

She stowed them away with the rest of the lunch remains and closed up the hamper. “It’s a small island nation in the Middle East, south of Kuwait.”

“I’m familiar with it. I’m just surprised you are.”

Mallory bristled, but Rhys continued before she could go on the attack. “No offense intended. I did some business there, but it’s not on most people’s radar.”

“I’m a classically trained chef.” She stood, brushing crumbs off her shorts, and stared down at him. “In case the meal you just wolfed down wasn’t enough to jog your memory. I’m familiar with lots of places and their cuisines.”

Familiar with, yes. Been there, no. She’d started her independence-fueled rebellion small, sticking to the continental United States. But exploring foreign shores was definitely on her post-cancer bucket list.

Of course, it would be better with a companion. Someone seasoned and well-traveled who could show her the ins and outs of globe-trotting. The best each country could offer. Restaurants. Hotels. Museums.

Added points if he was an attractive billionaire who made her heart race and her toes curl just by looking at her.

Stop it.

“Truce.” Said billionaire rose to his feet and extended his hand. “How about we both agree not to jump to conclusions about each other? I won’t assume you’re not worldly enough to know things like the culinary customs of small island countries, and you won’t assume I mean the worst every time I open my mouth.”

“I’m plenty worldly. And I do not assume the worst about you.” She drew herself up to her full five feet, ready to do battle again, then checked herself.