Page 9 of A Nanny for the Reclusive Billionaire

“I don’t know.” She tapped a finger against her cheek, pretending to study him with the absorption of Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “You look like a big boy to me. I’ll bet you can do it all by yourself.”

He sat up straighter on his stool, puffing out his puny preschooler chest. “I am a big boy.”

“I thought so.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a clandestine whisper. “How much do you use? A little or a lot?”

“A lot.” His fingers curled around the handle of the creamer.

“Me, too,” she agreed, still whispering as if their shared love of syrup was a state secret. “I like my French toast swimming in the stuff.”

“Yeah. Swimming.” He giggled and tipped the creamer over his plate until it was almost empty.

“Here.” She held out a fork and a butter knife. “I’ll bet you can cut it all by yourself, too.”

He pursed his lips and pushed her hand away. “Mrs. Flannigan says I make too much of a mess.”

“So we’ll clean it up.” She extended the fork and knife to him again. “There’s sponges and disinfectant for the counter. We can throw your pajamas in the wash. Problem solved. Unless…” She let her voice trail off.

His brow furrowed. “Unless what?”

“You don’t melt if you get wet, do you?”

“You mean like the Wicked Witch of the West?”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“No way.” He shook his head so hard his platinum curls—the color inherited from his mother, she assumed—flew around his face. “I like the water. I’m a real good swimmer. I can even dunk my head. My daddy teached me.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” From the way his daddy acted yesterday, she was surprised he remembered he had a son, never mind taught him how to swim. But first impressions could be misleading. She knew that better than anyone.

Not that her opinion of her boss­­—good or bad—mattered one iota if she couldn’t convince him to let her stay.

“Yep.” Oliver’s response jerked her back to the present. “He says I’m a fish.”

“Then you’ll be easy to clean up, too.” She handed over the utensils. “Have at it.”

He gripped the fork and knife in his pudgy fingers and started to saw away, predictably splattering syrup over everything in a three-foot radius. After a few minutes, he succeeded in separating a small square of toast and spearing it with his fork. He stared at it for what seemed like hours before lifting it to his mouth and nibbling at one corner.

Mallory pulled up a stool outside the danger zone and reached for the plate Oliver had rejected. “What do you think?”

He nibbled again.

Licked his lips.

Nibbled.

Licked.

“Not as good as Mrs. Flannigan’s,” he finally announced, popping the rest of the square into his mouth and continuing through a mouthful of food. “But it’s okay, I guess.”

“Thanks, I guess.” High praise coming from a kid used to having the best of everything. Except French toast, obviously. Mallory mentally patted herself on the back and started in on her own plate.

“Can we go to the beach?” Oliver asked, reattacking his food with his knife and fork.

“When you finish your breakfast.”

Mallory’s head snapped up at the gravelly, already-too-familiar voice of her employer, lounging against the archway between the kitchen and living room as if he owned the world. Which he probably could if he wanted to.

He’d showered and changed, but if she thought being fully dressed would make him less distracting she was way off base. She’d had a glimpse of what was underneath his short-sleeved polo and neatly pressed khakis, and that was something she wasn’t going to unsee any time soon. Not that she wanted to.