Page 25 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

She wiped her hands on her spandex shorts and crossed back to the refrigerator. “How about an omelet? Or a frittata?”

“Either one sounds great.”

She opened the door and studied the contents. “We’ve got ham, mushrooms, onions, Gruyère…”

“You’re the professional.” He tipped his chair back and put his hands behind his head. “Surprise me.”

She moved with the easy grace of a ballerina, retrieving items from the refrigerator and placing them on a cutting board next to the Keurig. She popped in a K-Cup, stuck a mug underneath, and pressed start before pulling a knife out of a wooden block.

The dance that followed was as intricate as any ballet. Chopping. Scrambling. Pouring. Stirring. Rhys wiped his still-sweaty palms on his khakis, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Who knew cooking could be such a turn-on?

He let the chair fall to the tile floor with a heavythud. Mallory shot him a questioning look over her shoulder, then brought two steaming mugs to the table.

“Milk or sugar?” she asked.

“Neither, thanks.” He took a sip. Strong and dark, just the way he liked it.

Mallory turned her attention back to the stove, removing the pan from the heat. She divided her creation between two waiting plates and added a piece of thick bread fresh from the toaster to each.

“Bon appétit.” She plunked one of the plates in front of him and sat across the table with the other.

“Thanks.” Rhys picked up his fork and dug in.

“Wow.” She gaped at him as he shoveled in forkful after forkful, her own utensil stalled halfway to her lips. “You weren’t kidding. You really were starving.”

“Mmph,” he mumbled through a mouthful of the most delicious combination of eggs, meat, cheese, and something he couldn’t quite identify that he’d ever tasted. “What’s in this?”

“It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

Her fork made its way to her mouth, and his hungry eyes watched as it disappeared between her lips.

He cleared his throat. “That would be a shame. Especially when we’re starting to get along.”

“Are we?” Her tongue darted out to lick her lips clean, and his jaw tightened. The way she ate was as erotic as the way she cooked.

“I thought so.”

“You’re not still mad at me for giving Oliver his mother’s picture?” Her fork hovered over her plate, and she stared at him expectantly.

“I was never mad,” he insisted.

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, not for long.” He bit into his toast with a satisfyingcrunch. “This is damn good. Beats the hell out of PEZ.”

“PEZ?”

“All I’ve eaten since breakfast. Until this.” He took another bite of toast.

She wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t know they still made that stuff. Nothing but pure sugar.”

He nodded, washing down his toast with a swig of coffee. “My guilty pleasure. A holdover from childhood. It was just me and my mom, and we didn’t have a lot. But every Christmas I’d get one in my stocking.”

“Where is she now?” Mallory asked, cutting into her omelet.

“She died.” Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat along with a mouthful of eggs. Ten years, and it still hurt to remember watching his mother fade away. He’d lost the two most important women in his life, one agonizingly slowly, the other painfully fast. “Cancer.”

Mallory’s face whitened, and her fork clattered to her plate.