Page 46 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Eleven

Rhys’s stomach rumbled, and he checked the time on his computer screen. Almost noon. He usually skipped lunch, which Mallory constantly warned him wasn’t healthy, but for some reason today he was ravenous. Probably in no small part due to their marathon sex session the night before, this one even longer—and wilder—thanks to the lock he’d installed on his bedroom door and the value pack of Trojans he’d ordered from Amazon Prime.

Remembering made him hot, made him want to do it all over again—and more. He adjusted himself beneath the zipper of his khakis and saved the spreadsheet he was working on. Now he needed food and a cold shower, not necessarily in that order.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Without waiting for a response, Collins pushed through the door, a plate piled high with pickles, potato salad, and the thickest sandwich Rhys had ever seen in one hand and a glass of what looked like sweet tea in the other.

“Mallory thought you might want a little snack.” Collins set the food and drink down on the desk.

It was almost spooky the way she anticipated his needs, in and out of the bedroom. If he dwelled on it too long it would freak him the fuck out, so he didn’t, choosing to focus instead on the plate of food in front of him.

“Looks like more than a little snack.” Rhys sat down and took a bite of the sandwich. Corned beef on rye, exactly the way he liked it with melted swiss and a dab of mustard. He washed it down with a generous slug of tea. “Delicious. Thank her for me.”

“You can thank her yourself when you see her.” Collins crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Rhys. “Which you seem to be doing a lot more of recently.”

Rhys returned his assistant’s stare over the rim of his glass. Yes, he and Mallory had been spending more time together in the days—and nights—since the storm. But they were discreet. He thought. “If you have something to say, then say it. You’ve never been good at beating around the bush.”

“Mrs. Flannigan saw her coming out of your room this morning.”

Fuck.

“Yes.” Collins took a seat in one of the guest chairs with a smirk. “That’s what we suspected.”

Rhys’s chest tightened, and he smashed a fist on his thigh under the cover of his desk. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Collins asked, adding a mocking eyebrow raise to the smirk.

“Like what?” Rhys pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. “You seem to think you know everything already.”

“I wouldn’t say everything.” Collins leaned back calmly in his chair, his unruffled demeanor only infuriating Rhys more. This conversation called for a drink. Something way stronger than sweet tea.

Rhys stood and went to the bar cart. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one who convinced me not to send her packing.” Rhys’s hand shook, sloshing Macallan onto the bar cart. He topped off his drink and tossed it back, draining the scotch in one long gulp that burned a trail down his throat to his stomach. “This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.”

“Afraid you’d sleep with her?” Collins prodded. “Or afraid someone would find out?”

Rhys sighed. In all honestly, he couldn’t say he regretted having sex with Mallory. But he would have preferred to keep their nighttime activities on the down-low, for her sake as well as his.

“If it makes any difference, I, for one, heartily approve,” Collins said, jutting his chin out like a damned peacock. “Why do you think I wanted her to stay? I had a feeling about you two.”

Rhys poured himself another generous portion of scotch and slumped back down at his desk. “I don’t remember expanding your job duties to include matchmaker. “

“You might not have, but someone else did.” Collins reached into his jacket, pulled out a plain white envelope, and pushed it across the desk to Rhys.

Rhys started at it like it was laced with ricin. “What’s this?”

“A letter.”

“I can see that.” Rhys frowned, still not moving to pick up the envelope. “Who is it from?”

Collins rose and crossed to the bar cart. He picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “Mind if I help myself?”

“Answer the damn question.”

“I’ll take that as a no.” Collins poured himself two fingers of bourbon.