Page 51 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

Chapter Twelve

Rhys had a new favorite hobby.

Watching Mallory sleep.

Bordering on creepy stalker? Maybe. But that wasn’t stopping him from taking advantage of the rare opportunity to study her openly, unobserved.

She lay in his arms, her breathing deep and even. No makeup. Hair strewn all over her pillow, a few stray strands stuck to her cheek. Kiss-swollen lips slightly parted, an occasional soft snore escaping between them.

Christ, even her snoring was adorable.

Yeah, he wasn’t just verging on creepy stalker. He’d crossed the border into Christian Grey territory.

He would have continued staring at her until the alarm on her cell phone went off, but nature was calling. He tore his eyes away from the object of his obsession and eased his way out of her embrace. He was halfway to the bathroom when a sharp, high-pitched scream split the heavy summer night air.

Oliver.

Rhys went into crisis mode, scrambling for his long-ago-discarded clothes, but Mallory, who’d been dead to the world seconds before, somehow got the jump on him. She threw on shorts and a T-shirt and was out the door before he had one leg in his boxers.

Another scream had him moving triple time. He raced barefoot across the hall to Oliver’s bedroom, skidding to a stop inside the doorway. Mallory was seated on the bed with Oliver cradled in her arms, rocking him back and forth and crooning. Moonlight streaming in through the slats of the blinds bathed them in streaks of silver.

“Shh.” She stroked Oliver’s hair, plastered to his damp forehead. “It’s only a nightmare.”

Oliver lifted his pale, tearstained face. “Mommy?”

Mallory’s shoulders stiffened, the movement so slight it was barely perceptible, but she didn’t correct him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Rhys’s gut twisted, his son’s one-word plea a dagger through his heart. He was adult enough to know it was totally normal for a child to call for his mother.And that it was pointless for Mallory to correct Oliver. But that didn’t make it any easier on his psyche.

“Is there anything I can do?” He hated feeling so goddamn helpless. Out on the cliff, he had a purpose. Getting his son to safety. Something to push his fear to the back of his mind and force him to take action. Now all he could do was stand, paralyzed, while Oliver kicked and thrashed, his reddish-brown eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

As if on cue, Oliver’s eyelids drooped, and he went limp in Mallory’s arms. She laid him down and pulled the blanket up to his chest.

“Is he okay?” Rhys asked, keeping his voice low.

“Night terror,” she explained, smoothing Oliver’s hair back. “Has he had them before?”

“No.” Rhys took a tentative step into the room. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“He’ll be fine.” She stood and bent to adjust the blanket.

“Did you see what I saw? He was terrified.”

Mallory stroked Oliver’s cheek and straightened. “Trust me, he won’t remember any of it in the morning. It was more frightening for you than it was for him.”

As scared as he’d been, Rhys found that hard to believe. He’d seen the terror in his son’s eyes. But for Oliver’s sake, he hoped Mallory was right. “How do you know so much about this stuff? Don’t tell me you’re a sleep specialist and a chef?”

“Hardly. I used to have night terrors when I was Oliver’s age, but I grew out of them. I’m sure he will, too.” Mallory glanced back at Oliver, his blanket rising and falling with each rhythmic inhale and exhale, and lowered her voice. “Let’s talk outside.”

Rhys nodded. Mallory followed him into the hall and closed the door behind her, making sure not to let the latch click.

“About what Oliver said in there…” Her voice trailed off.

“When he called you ‘Mommy’?” Rhys winced at the last word. It wasn’t one he’d heard much in the past three years, and it conjured images of Oliver and Beth together, images that were both hurtful and heartwarming.

“It didn’t mean anything.” Mallory stared up at him, her eyes begging him to believe her.

“I know.”