Page 52 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“He was dreaming,” she insisted. “He had no idea what he was saying.”

“I know.”

“I’m not trying to replace his mother. I’d never do that.”

Of course she wouldn’t. Sure, it was a punch in the gut to hear his son mistake Mallory for Beth, but Rhys didn’t think for one minute it was something Mallory encouraged or even wanted.

Words weren’t going to convince her he understood, but maybe actions would. He stepped closer, backing her against the wall. She blinked, surprised, as he ducked his head and captured her mouth, silencing her. Her lips parted on a sigh and she pushed up on tiptoe, snaking her arms around his neck and pressing her soft breasts against his chest.

He meant the kiss to be gentle, reassuring. But her more-than-enthusiastic response shot that plan to hell, and within seconds it turned hot and hungry. They kissed like teenagers, their hands roaming but never slipping under their scant clothing.

She pulled away, biting her lip in that adorable way that always made him hard. “It’s almost five. I should get some sleep before sunrise. And you should go back downstairs before Oliver wakes up again.”

She was right. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He let his arms fall and took a step back. “See you at breakfast?”

She raised one foot to scratch the back of her leg. She’d changed her nail polish again, this time to a neon green. “If you can pry yourself away from your work.”

“I will if you make that French toast Oliver likes so much.”

“Oliver?” One arched brow lifted further.

He held his hands up, palms out, in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, me. Although in my defense, Oliver’s a big fan, too.”

“Since you put it that way, sure.”

He gave her one last kiss and headed down the hall, forgetting until he was at the bottom of the stairs that he’d left the rest of his clothes in her room. He thought about going back for them, then shrugged it off. It wasn’t like what he and Mallory were doing was a secret from anyone but Oliver.

If their relationship was going to continue—and he hoped to hell it was—that would have to change. As would the fact that he was paying Mallory to work for him during the day and sleeping with her at night.

The arrangement left a bad taste in his mouth. He meant what he told Mallory. This wasn’t just fucking for him. For the first time in a long time he wanted something more, a real connection with someone who shared not only his bed but his hopes, his dreams, his life.

A connection that sounded a lot like love.

The unexpected appearance of the L-word made him stop short. Was that where he and Mallory were headed? He’d only loved one woman in his life. After Beth’s death, he never imagined he could love again.

But Beth had. She not only imagined it, she hoped for it. She hadn’t wanted him to spend the rest of his life alone and in mourning.

It was too much for his sleep-deprived brain to process. He yawned and raked a hand through his bedhead. His mattress was calling to him. Maybe after some shut-eye the answer to his dilemma would miraculously appear.

…

“Mailfor you, dear.” Mrs. Flannigan held out a thin white envelope to Mallory as she entered the kitchen.

Mallory stretched and yawned, the effects of another late night of bedroom gymnastics compounded by Oliver’s night terror still catching up to her. She took the envelope and set it down next to the Keurig. Whatever it was, it could wait until she got her morning caffeine injection. She took a mug from the rack next to the machine, stuck it under the dispenser, popped a K-Cup into the basket, and hit the start button. “Thanks.”

“I couldn’t help but notice the return address,” the housekeeper mused as she stood at the counter, continuing to sort through the rest of the mail. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

Mallory glanced down at the envelope. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the logo for Heritage Labs.

Her blood test results. They’d gotten pushed to the back of her brain by the next-level sex and Oliver’s night terror. Not that she could ever really forget she was a cancer survivor. It was an invisible badge stamped on her soul that branded her as indelibly as Hester Prynne’s scarletA.

But it had been nice to pretend to be normal for a while.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mrs. Flannigan prodded.

“It’s nothing,” Mallory lied, snatching up the envelope and stuffing it into the back pocket of her capris. “Some routine blood work for my annual physical.”