Page 30 of The Billionaire's One-Night Stand Nanny
Something inside me, long-forgotten, roared.
“Maddie can’t know,” I said.
“No, of course not,” she agreed instantly. “We’ll be… normal. Around her.Mr. Walker.” She stressed the last words in a way that should definitelynothave made my cock twitch.
“Right.”
“And Edie can’t know,” she added.
Fuck. I’d nearly forgotten. “Of course. If that’s how you want it… No, we won’t tell them.” They didn’t need to know.Notyet, at least, something whispered.
“And…” Her fingers teased the short hairs at the base of my skull. “Not tonight?” She sounded hopeful, like she wanted me to change my mind, but I couldn’t do this without giving her at least one more chance to turn me down, like she should.
I shook my head slowly. “No, not tonight. But…”
“Tomorrow?” she asked, pulling my head down so that her sweet breath gusted over my lips.
I kissed her; one soft kiss, chaste but for the implication of more to come.
“Tomorrow,” I said.
* * *
I waited for the call all day. The one where Flora would say,We shouldn’t. We can’t. Let’s forget last night–and that first night–ever happened. I’m sorry.
I wasn’t sure if I was anticipating the call or dreading it until she walked in the door, right at seven.
“Hello?” she called from the entrance. “Ryan?”
Fuck, she washere. The steaks I had salted and coming up to temp on the counter–one would be for her. I’d half thought I’d be eating one for breakfast tomorrow. The pair of wine glasses I’d gotten out–one would be for her. My back up plan of drinking the whole bottle and wallowing was off the table. I left the mushrooms I was slicing and wiped my hands on the dish towel haphazardly before making my way through the hall and into the foyer.
She was pretty always, but tonight…
She’d foregone her usual cheerful sundresses and jean shorts and tee shirts for a form-fitting navy dress, not fancy, but not the kind of thing one wore running after a ten-year-old. It clung to her, emphasizing the curves of her hips, her waist. The neckline was low; she’d neglected to wear any of those little sweaters she seemed to like and her breasts looked soft and inviting. Her hair was gently curled and fell around her shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, holding up the set of keys I’d given her. The four-leaf clover charm jingled. “I let myself in.”
The nanny’s keys...
But she looked nothing like the nanny.
“Of course not,” I said, all my nerves falling away, replaced with a pounding, driving anticipation.
She smirked. She knew what those keys in her hand did to me, and she was teasing me with them. I could play that game.
“Come on through,” I said, turning away and heading back to the kitchen instead of scooping her into my arms like I wanted to. “I’m still getting dinner ready.”
She followed, hopping up onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, slinging her purse onto the other one. Herpurse–the one from the book launch, not the tote bag she stuffed with snacks and water bottles and crumpled tickets from renting remote controlled boats in the park. And romance novels. I smiled. She didn’t need her book boyfriends tonight.
“You’re cooking?” she asked, and I nodded.Could Edwin, Duke of Glouchestershireton, cook?I thought not.
“I am,” I said. It sent a thrill of pride through me when she made no move to help. Not the nanny tonight. “Wine?” I asked, sliding the empty glass across the marble counter with a soft sound. She nodded and I poured, the deep ruby liquid pooling in the bottom of the wide glass.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and swirled it expertly. Where had she learned that? When I was twenty-six, I’d been swilling–but no,I corrected myself: when I was twenty-six, I’d been up four times a night, making bottles for a tiny, squalling baby.Twenty-six.I turned back to my mushrooms, slicing the last few before sliding them into a pan to sauté.
“It’s good,” Flora said, and I looked back to her. Her tongue darted out between her lips to catch a drop of wine.
“I didn’t pick it out,” I said, deflecting.
“No? Was it–who’s your friend who’s a chef?”
