Page 26 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just clumsy.” She waved him off, retrieving her fork. Her eyes met his, filled with concern and compassion and something he couldn’t put a finger on. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thanks.” He got the sense she was holding back, but he didn’t push the issue, opting to change to a less sensitive subject. “What made you want to be a chef?”

She traded her fork for her coffee cup, some of the color returning to her face. “What made you want to be a tech billionaire?”

“Answering a question with a question.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, relieved that the momentary awkwardness between them seemed to have passed. “Oldest trick in the book. But I’ll bite. I didn’t set out to get rich. I liked inventing things, and I wanted to make people’s lives better.”

“I guess you could say the same for me.” She sipped her coffee, then studied him over the rim of her cup. “Cooking is creating. Marrying flavors and textures to create something unique and memorable. It’s like painting or sculpting, but with food as a medium. And there’s nothing more rewarding than planning and preparing a meal that puts food in someone’s stomach and a smile on their face.”

“When you put it like that, we have a lot in common.” He swiped his napkin across his mouth. “We’re both innovators and idealists.”

“Kindred spirits,” she agreed, a pretty blush spreading over her tanned cheeks.

“So why give that all up to come here and play glorified babysitter?”

She shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “I like kids.”

“That’s obvious from how you are with Oliver.” He tossed his napkin next to his plate. “But there must be more to it than that.”

“I needed a change.” She set down her mug and sighed. “The situation I was in was stifling. I felt like I was being smothered by expectations. Here, I can breathe again. I feel freer.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. It was almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. He’d never considered the courage it must have taken for her to leave everything she’d known and come to a strange place, with strange people, in a new, unfamiliar job. Then he’d gone and made things even more difficult for her by being the world’s worst boss. Firing her on the first day. Avoiding her like she was a communicable disease. Not to mention fantasizing about her day and night. Michael Scott fromThe Officehad nothing on him.

He stretched out his legs and rubbed the back of his neck. Now was as good a time as any to do something he should have done weeks ago. “I owe you an apology. I accused you of jumping to conclusions, but I’m the one who fired you on sight.”

She cocked her head. “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“Stupid ones,” he admitted.

“You know what they say.” The corners of her mouth curved into a smile. “The first step toward fixing a problem is recognizing you have one.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does that mean you accept my apology?”

“As long as you accept mine. I should have asked before taking the picture.”

She crossed her legs, one turquoise-toenailed foot peeking out from under the table, and his pulse kicked up a notch. They were moving into new, unchartered territory, and he didn’t know if he was more thrilled or terrified.

He picked up his fork, speared a bite-sized piece of omelet from his plate, and held it aloft in a mock toast.

“Agreed.”

…

“More coffee?” Rhys stood and crossed to the Keurig.

“No, thanks.” Malloryput a hand over her mug. “One cup’s my limit once the sun sets, or I’d never get to sleep.”

“Sleep’s overrated.” He spun the rack of K-Cups, picked one, and dropped it into the machine.

She focused on her plate under the pretext of finishing her omelet. Anything not to drool over how he filled out his tapered polo shirt and perfectly tailored khakis. Why did he have to be so criminally good-looking? Even overworked and sleep-deprived, he looked like he’d stepped off the pages ofGQorEsquire,his sexy late-night stubble only adding to his appeal. Throw in his recent attitude adjustment—toward her and his son—and he was damned near irresistible. Her ovaries had practically exploded watching him on the beach with Oliver.

“Let me guess.” She scooped the last bit of omelet onto her fork. “You’re going back to work. No sleep for the weary.”

“Not tonight.” He jabbed a finger at the start button and the machine began to whir. “I’ve worked enough for one day.”

“Did I hear that right?” She pushed her chair back and downed the last of her coffee. “The overlord of overtime is calling it a night?”