Page 177 of The Nanny and the Hothead
He turned the corner, then spied the gallery—the gallery owned by Janine Tran. And the location of professional photographer Charlotte Ames’s first exhibit. His pace quickened, but he stilled when he caught a glimpse of her in the center of the space. Her ponytail swished from side to side as she looked between two blown-up photographs. Greedily, he admired his fiancée. This remarkable, talented, sexy as hell woman made his heart sing. And he wasn’t her only fan.
Gwen’s publishing company had hired her to work with several of their authors and, of course, booked her to work on his next book. And the connections she’d made at the Royal College of Art propelled her career further. Galleries across the US and UK were clamoring to display her photos and celebrate her work. She’d even accepted a job to photograph a wedding in Denver for a couple she’d met while sitting on the bench across the street.
She took a step toward one of the photos, then stopped. It was as if she sensed him watching. She looked over her shoulder, and her serious expression dissolved into a wide grin.
Christ, this never got old! The rush of euphoria at knowing she was his sent his pulse racing.
He jogged the rest of the way, then tried to open the door but found it locked.
She pointed at the closed sign. “Come back tomorrow,” she teased, those emerald eyes sparkling.
“Any chance I can get a private showing? I come with gifts,” he said, meeting her coy expression with one of his own as he held up the box and the bag.
She rubbed her hands together like one of those over-the-top mad scientists. “Tell me it’s something sweet.”
His gaze darkened. “It’s something very sweet.”
With her hand on the lock, she studied him through the glass. “It’s against gallery policy to allow anyone besides staff and artists in after hours. But I think we can make an exception for a devastatingly handsome chef who comes bearing sweet treats.” He drank in his fiery redhead as the click of the door unlocking sent his desire into overdrive.
She propped open the door, and with the box under his arm and the bag of goodies around his wrist, he scooped her up with his free arm. “Thanks for breaking the rules for me.” He pressed a kiss to her petal-soft lips, then gingerly returned her to the ground.
“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing to the crisp white walls adorned with enlarged versions of her photos.
He surveyed the bright room. The exhibit’s theme focused on Denver communities. While Charlotte had taken thousands of photos of him cooking in Say Cheese, Louise, she also captured the people and the diversity that made Denver unique. She and Professor Tran had pored over the images and had come up with an exhibition that took his breath away. And seeing the enlarged photographs gracing the walls and fastened to easels in the center of the gallery heightened the experience.
He stared into her emerald eyes. “How did this hothead chef end up with a woman as amazing as you?”
With a mischievous grin, she twisted the key with her left hand. The heart-shaped engagement ring glittered under the gallery lights, and again, he was struck by how lucky he was.
“We have Madelyn to thank. On the night she explained the nannying position, she’d described herself as a facilitator of fate. I’d say she’s right.”
Charlotte wasn’t wrong. Madelyn Malone may have an unconventional approach, but he wouldn’t be standing here, beaming at his beautiful fiancée without her.
“Speaking of fate,” he began. “I have a gift for you.”
“Sweets and a gift?” Charlotte asked, peeking into the bag.
“The sweets are chocolate-covered strawberries, and the gift is a surprise,” he answered.
“Gifts and desserts are my favorites,” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “But first, I want to show you a piece that just arrived.” She took his hand and led him toward the back of the gallery.
“Another photograph for the show?” he asked, following her away from the main gallery’s bright lights.
“This one is for the entryway to Helping Hands. Louise and Ralph have been so good to us. I want to donate it to them,” she answered, leading him into a smaller room adjacent to the gallery. “I had this photograph printed on a large canvas,” she explained, then removed a sheet covering a large square that had to be at least eight feet tall by eight feet wide.
He took a step back to absorb the impact of an image of three pairs of hands with an orange heart in the center of the smallest palm. “It’s us—you, me, and Oscar.”
“Yes, it’s the photo Oscar’s teacher had taken when you cooked for Oscar’s class.”
He remembered that day. He’d been so worried about taking Louise out again. Having Charlotte by his side had given him the strength to venture back to his beginning. He focused on the heart. “Louise and Ralph are going to love it,” he said, setting the to-go bag on a table in the center of the room. “And now my gift. This is for you,” he added, handing her the box.
She jostled it gently. “You know you didn’t have to get me a present,” she said, then stroked his cheek.
“It’s the night before your first exhibit. I wanted to do something special.” He eyed the box. “Well, calling it a gift might not be the right word. I’m more of a messenger, returning something that belongs to you.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Now you really have me stumped.” She set the box on the table, opened the lid, then gasped. “Oh, Mitch! Is this what I think it is?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“There’s one way to tell. But fair warning, Oscar and I might have personalized it.”
