Page 22 of The Nanny and the Hothead
His jaw dropped. “What the hell are you two doing here? Don’t you have your own restaurant and bakery to run in Kansas City?” He came around his desk, hardly able to believe Gabe Sinclair and Monica Brandt-Sinclair were standing in front of him.
They’d met a few years ago at a food and wine event up in Aspen, Colorado, and had instantly hit it off. Gabe and Monica had their own show, a restaurant in Langley Park, a small town not far from Kansas City. And it wasn’t just the similarities in their success that allowed them to form a professional connection. Gabe and Monica shared a dedication to craft and a reliance on discipline in the kitchen that mirrored his approach.
And Ines was good friends with the couple’s PR guy, Corbyn Howell.
“Dire times require your publicist to act, Mitch,” Ines said.
“Ines talked us into spending some time in Denver as guest chefs at your shitty restaurant,” Gabe answered with a smirk as the men shook hands.
“Oh, stop, Gabe,” Monica chided, swatting her husband on his shoulder. The woman was a former supermodel turned baking phenomenon. She and Gabe were thriving in their careers.
But Mitch had to look away. It was almost too much to take the unmistakable bond between Gabe and Monica. Just the way Gabe looked at his wife was how he used to look at…
STOP!
“Mitch, your restaurant is wonderful. But the risotto—” Monica added with a cringe.
“I know! I know!” he answered, embracing the woman. “I’ve got a new sous chef I’m breaking in.”
Monica nodded, her dark hair tumbling at her shoulders as her expression grew serious. “And what about Oscar? Is he living with you in Denver now?”
Mitch’s eyes widened at the sound of those two syllables.
Oscar.
His son’s name.
Son.
A lump formed in his throat. He could barely wrap his head around the fact that he was Oscar’s father. You’d think after three years, it would have sunk in. But circumstances were beyond messed up. Since learning the truth, he’d seen the kid a handful of times. And this kid—his kid—this six-year-old boy he barely knew was going to live with him—would grow up in his care.
What the hell was the universe thinking?
He turned to Ines. “You told them?” he asked, his voice a thick rasp.
Ines’s features softened. “Yes, because Oscar will be an enormous part of your life, Mitch. You’re the only person left to care for him now. You’re his father.”
The words hit like a wrecking ball. He was literally the last person on the planet who should raise a kid. He’d been a hellion as a child and a terror as a teen. It was no surprise he’d turned out like that. That’s what happened when a grandfather who didn’t give two shits was put in charge of raising an unruly boy.
That might be all he and his son had in common. Life had thrown them for a loop at a young age and had supplied each of them with the worst possible caregiver.
But Ines was correct. And he had to look at life in black and white now. Truth be told, he owed Ines a debt of gratitude. Personally and professionally, he was in a world of shit—spiraling, angry at everything and everyone. Like it or not, this was his life—and he needed to get back on track.
As much as he hated relinquishing control of his restaurant, Gabe and Monica were the only two people he’d even consider allowing to grace the back of the house. Ines was also the one who’d connected him to Madelyn Malone’s nanny services. The nanny lady might employ unusual tactics—like, for example, making him hang out with other single guys who’d found they’d soon be caring for a kid. Rowen Gale, a tech genius, had been the first in this curious quartet to be assigned a nanny. And Christ Almighty, that guy had been put through the wringer during the sixty-day trial period. But now, the nerd seemed to be walking on goddamned sunshine. And he was engaged to his nanny.
That sure as hell wouldn’t be the case for Mitch Elliott. No way! When it came to love, he’d been fooled once, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to be fooled for a second time.
“Mitch,” Gabe began, cutting into his wild train of thought.
He gathered himself. “Yeah.”
“It would be a privilege to look after the Crystal Cricket while you take some time off,” Gabe offered.
Monica nodded. “You don’t have to worry, Mitch. You know I keep Gabe in line. What’s another restaurant on my plate? Remember, I was raised by my strict German grandmother, and Oma doesn’t put up with any shenanigans, and neither do I,” the woman added with a twinkle in her eye.
“How is Oma?” he asked, grateful for the distraction.
“Scary as ever, dude! She might be a card-carrying member of the American Association of Retired Persons, but you do not want to cross Oma,” Gabe replied.
