Page 53 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

The housekeeper eyed Mallory over the top of the Williams Sonoma catalog she was leafing through. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Mallory had to swallow fast to keep from spitting out her first sip of coffee.

“Um, no,” she said when she’d recovered. “No chance of that.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Flannigan asked, setting the catalog down and focusing all of her attention on Mallory.

“Yes, I’m sure.” More than sure. She and Rhys had used protection religiously. Even without it, her chances of getting pregnant, while not nonexistent, were less than optimal, a side effect of chemotherapy and another reminder of the toll cancer had taken on her body.

Which was why that one word from Oliver—“Mommy”—had been like a dose of cold, hard reality. As much as she’d grown to care for him, she wasn’t his mommy, and she might never be anyone’s mommy. That was something she’d learned to accept. But what about Rhys? He said he wanted more than a physical relationship. Would he still want that when she told him the truth?

“Pity.” The housekeeper sighed, thankfully interrupting Mallory’s somber stream of thought before she drowned in self-pity. “This house could use the pitter-patter of more little feet. And Oliver could do with a younger brother or sister. Although I suppose it would be best if you and Mr. Dalton got married first.”

Married?This time Mallory couldn’t stop herself from spewing coffee all over her shirt.

“Now, Millie,” Mr. Flannigan scolded, walking through the door with an armful of groceries. “I thought we agreed not to meddle in the young folks’ love life.”

Young folks?Mallory couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard that phrase. If ever. She traded her coffee mug for a napkin and dabbed at her stained shirt.

Mrs. Flannigan took the bags from her husband and put them on the counter. “You agreed. I crossed my fingers behind my back.”

“Remember what happened the last time you tried to play matchmaker?” He fished an apple out of one of the bags and bit into it.

“They got married, didn’t they?”

“And divorced three years later.”

Mrs. Flannigan ignored her husband and began pulling out groceries and lining them up on the counter for inspection. “Did you get the baker’s yeast?”

“Was it on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Then I got it.”

“Let me take care of that,” Mallory said, stepping in between them. “I’m sure you have plenty of other chores on your to-do list.”

“Well…” Mrs. Flannigan hesitated. “The laundry’s overflowing. I should get that started.”

“Go.” Mallory shouldered the housekeeper out of the way and reached into one of the bags. “I’ll finish up here and start breakfast.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Don’t mind Millie,” Mr. Flannigan half whispered so his retreating wife wouldn’t overhear. “She means well. After everything Mr. Dalton’s been through, she wants to see him happy. We all do. And you make him the happiest he’s been in years.”

“I wish I were as sure of that as you are,” Mallory admitted, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Don’t sell yourself short. Millie and I have worked for Mr. Dalton for more than six years. Ever since he and his late wife bought this place. For the first time since her death, his days are more than working, eating, and sleeping. He’s living again. Smiling. Laughing. Playing with his son. And that’s all because of you.”

Mallory emptied the last of the groceries from the bags and started stowing the perishables in the refrigerator. “You give me an awful lot of credit.”

“You deserve it. But it comes with a lot of responsibility. Letting someone in—trusting again, loving again—is a big step for him. Don’t make him regret it.”

The caretaker gave her a polite nod that told her he’d said his piece and headed off in the opposite direction of his wife, crunching his apple as he went. Mallory let his words sink in as he disappeared.

Rhys said it himself last night. This thing between them wasn’t casual. And it wasn’t only their hearts on the line. Oliver had a lot to lose, too.

With a weary sigh, she closed the refrigerator door and leaned against it. It was time to come clean. She and Rhys were already in too deep. He deserved to know about her medical history and all the baggage that dragged along with it.

But first she had to know her test results. She pulled the envelope from her back pocket and tore it open, quick and dirty, like ripping off a Band-Aid. She took out the single sheet of paper inside and unfolded it, letting the envelope float to the floor.

White blood cell count—normal. Red blood cell count—normal. Platelets, proteins, sugar, electrolytes, enzymes—all normal.

Mallory let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and slumped down to the floor, her back resting against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest, not bothering to wipe away the lone, relieved tear streaming down her cheek. She’d dodged another bullet. But there would be more. Her life was a series of scares. There was always the chance she’d have a late recurrence or second cancer.

Rhys had already lost one wife. And his mother, to cancer no less. He had a right to know the risk he was taking getting involved with her.

If she could only figure out how to tell him.