Page 42 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“I know! You were supposed to find your Mr. Cheesy Forever last night. You think the way to do that is by lying?” he snarled.
Searing indignation burned in her chest as she narrowed her gaze. “It’s not lying. It’s called being flexible.”
Mitch donned his asshole chef expression. “It’s acting like a doormat, Charlotte.”
“I am not a doormat!” she threw back. But the shake in her voice begged to differ.Dammit!
Mitch sneered, clearly not swayed. “So, you’d be cool jetting off to Cabo with that hairy jackass?”
This infuriating man!
“No, I would not,” she answered through a clenched jaw.
“How do you know that he wasn’t your Mr. Cheesy Forever?” the chef tossed back, using her words against her—the creep!
She had to turn the tables and fast.
“How do you know that I want to nanny for you?” she countered. She might be out of options when it came to paying her bills. But he wasn’t without vulnerabilities either.
A muscle twitched in his jaw—she’d landed a verbal punch. “Because you’ve lost your job, and you’re about to get kicked out of your apartment. I’m your only option.”
Dammit! In her tipsy state, she’d shared her woes with the man. She parted her lips to unload on him when his fiery expression cooled and gave way to a tenderness she’d never observed in the man’s eyes.
“And when you said my son’s name last night,” Mitch began, his voice cracking. “There was such warmth to the word. It made me think—”
“What? What did you think when I saidOscar?” she asked, the name falling from her lips like a lullaby or a mystical incantation. Instantly, the humiliation and the fury churning in her belly quieted as she waited, breathless, for his answer. And holy heated exchange! Did she get a reaction! Her heart fluttered in her chest. If she wasn’t glaring at him, she would have missed it—the slight upturn in his lips—the ghost of a sad, sweet grin.
“I just knew that you’d be good for Oscar because, despite chucking a salad at me and getting blitzed out of your mind on margaritas, you care about people, Charlotte. All a person has to do is look in your eyes, and they know it.”
No words. She had no words.
The muscles in Mitch’s throat constricted as he swallowed hard. “The truth is, you’re better suited to be with Oscar than I am. I don’t know the first thing about being a good parent,” he confessed, running his hands down the scruff of his jawline. “I’m in a world of shit. I’m under contract to write a damned book to save my career, and I recently became the sole caregiver for my kid. What do you say, Charlotte? Can you give me sixty days and help me figure this out?”
Wide-eyed, she stared at the man. His uncharacteristically earnest words went straight to her heart. She had no idea his career was on the rocks. Then again, he was a TV chef who’d completely bucked the limelight three years ago to cook at a small bistro in Denver, far from the likes of the television food meccas of Los Angeles and New York.
“You learned about Oscar three years ago, didn’t you? That’s when you found out that you had a son,” she said, unable to stop herself. It was a hunch, a strange premonition, but she had to be right—she felt it, the truth of it.
His lips parted as pain clouded his expression. But just as he began to answer, something hard hit her square in the back as an out-of-place mechanical sound purred. “Ouch!” she cried, reaching to rub the tender spot as a barrage of pebbles rained down on them.
Mitch grabbed her hand, and the two of them sprinted toward the RV, running for cover as a voice rang out.
“Gotcha suckers!” a boy called from way up in a tree.
How long had he been there?
The child stuffed something into a worn backpack, then zoomed down, springing back and forth, limb by limb, like he was part boy and part ape. The child flashed a wicked, toothy grin, and Charlotte could barely believe her eyes.
Barefoot and barely four feet tall, the boy looked like a mini-Mitch with his cropped dark hair and the same strong jawline. But before she could even greet the tiny heathen child, the kid disappeared into a cloud of dust.
She leaned against the RV and caught her breath. “That was—”
“That was my son. If it’s not already completely obvious from the welcome he just gave us, it’s safe to say that I’ve been a shit father. The boy and I barely know each other.” Mitch pinned her with his gaze. “Please, Charlotte, give me sixty days. I’m not the type of guy who likes to depend on anyone. But I’m not an idiot—and I know you see that I need you.”
“You need me?” she echoed, hating how much she liked the sound of that. She glanced down at their joined hands, but Mitch was quick to release his grip.
He shifted his stance.Was the man nervous?“I need a nanny for Oscar. What do you say, Charlotte? Are you in? Can you put up with a hothead and his kid for the next two months?”
She twisted the cuff of her shirt—no, his shirt.
