by Regina Kyle
“He’s in on this, too?” Rhys asked with a smirk.
“Four meals a week,” she reminded him under her breath. “You promised. You can catch up on work later.”
Rhys glanced over his shoulder, presumably to take stock of the ever-present pile of papers stacked on his desk waiting for his attention. Then he stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him. “All right, let’s go.”
“Great.” She handed him the basket. “I know the perfect place.”
Chapter Six
“Are we there yet?” Oliver piped up for what seemed like the hundredth time from the back of the UTV.
“Almost.” It was the same answer Mallory, sitting in the passenger seat of the John Deere Gator next to Rhys, had given the previous ninety-nine times. “It’s over that rise.”
She pointed a finger at a steep, grassy hill in the distance, and Rhys’s worst fears came to fruition. Of all the possible picnic locations on Flamingo Key, what had possessed her to pick that remote spot? How had she even found it? Beth had spent weeks exploring before stumbling upon it.
His foot slipped on the gas pedal, and the UTV lurched.
“Everything okay?” Mallory shot him a concerned side-eye.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and followed her finger, maneuvering the UTV around a stand of cypress trees and toward the base of the hill.
“Hang on to that basket.” Mallory half turned in her seat to warn Oliver as they started to climb. “We don’t want to lose our lunch.”
With her attention switched from him to his son, Rhys breathed a mini sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to explain the war of emotions raging inside him. Shock. Pain. Anger. Longing.
Guilt.
His fingers curled around the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip, and he did his best to concentrate on navigating the uneven terrain. With every inch forward, the invisible weight pressing down on his chest grew heavier, and not because of the treacherous landscape.
As the UTV crested the hill, Rhys braced himself for the rush of memories. Beth, smiling and laughing as she waded in the surf, her long auburn hair blowing in the breeze behind her. Daring him to jump off the outcropping of rocks at the far end of the beach. Holding nine-month-old Oliver’s hands as he took his first shaky steps.
Surprisingly, the wave of sentiment that washed over him was more a soft swell than a tsunami, filling him with a quiet, comforting warmth instead of the dull, cold ache he’d expected. Rhys slowed the UTV and took in the scene below him. The sharp slope of the embankment leading down to the small strip of pink-white sand visible at high tide. Beth had pestered him to have a staircase built, but he’d never seemed to have the time. Or make the time, if he was honest with himself. Clear, calm, shallow water perfect for swimming thanks to the protection of the coral reef offshore. A handful of palm trees swaying in the breeze, offering a welcome retreat from the midday sun.
Had he been wrong to stay away for so long? To not share this place with his son?
“It’s beautiful.” Mallory’s half-whispered words reminded him he wasn’t alone.
“Are we there?” Oliver bounced in his seat.
“Sit still and hold tight.” Rhys glanced back at his son to make sure he’d followed his instructions. When he was satisfied Oliver was secure, he navigated the UTV down the slope to a shady spot under one of the palm trees.
Oliver jumped down the second the vehicle was stopped. “It’s Mommy’s beach.”
Rhys froze with one leg inside the UTV and one out, his son’s words like a roundhouse kick to his gut. Oliver hadn’t been two years old when Beth died. There was no way he could remember her bringing him there. “What?”
“Mommy’s beach,” Oliver repeated. “From the picture.”
“What picture?” Rhys asked, his stunned paralysis finally subsided enough for him to climb out of the Gator.
“The one that was in the li-bary.” If he hadn’t been so shocked and confused, Rhys would have chuckled at his son’s mispronunciation. “Mommy’s standing in front of that.”
Oliver stuck a chubby finger toward the outcropping. “It looks like a duck.”
Rhys studied the rock formation at the opposite end of the beach, the one Beth had dared him to jump off. His son was right. If he tilted his head and squinted, it looked sort of like a duck’s head, the ledge he’d plunged from jutting out to form the bill. “What do you mean ‘was’ in the library? Where did it go?”
“Mallory gave it to me. So I could put it on the table next to my bed.”
Rhys eyed her questioningly. She had unloaded the UTV and was spreading out a blanket in the shade. She took her sweet time fussing with the thing, kneeling to smooth it down from corner to corner.
When she was finished, she stood and faced him, hands on her slim hips in a don’t-fuck-with-me pose. Damn, this woman. He wanted to be mad at her, but at the same time he admired her spunk. “He wanted a picture of his mother in his room. It was the only one I could find.”
Oliver had talked about his mother? To someone he’d known for barely a month? If Rhys had needed further proof of how strongly his son had bonded with the new nanny, even after the bee sting incident, this was it.
Icy fingers of regret tiptoed down his spine, making him shiver despite the August heat. He should have been the one Oliver went to if he was curious about his mother. The one to tell him how Beth had never learned to drive because her family moved when she was a teenager to Manhattan, where, according to her, you’d have to be crazy to get behind the wheel. How she’d been strangely fascinated with gummy bears, especially the green ones, which you’d think would taste like lime or sour apple but were strawberry. How she loved to dance around the kitchen with a dish towel, singing the old Rod Stewart tunes her mother had played on repeat.
Rhys shoved his hands into the pockets of the swim trunks Mallory had convinced him to change into before they headed out. When he spoke, his voice was tight. “You should have asked me if you could take it.”
She moved the picnic basket onto the blanket, apparently unaffected by his even-shittier-than-usual attitude, and started to unpack. There was the fried chicken and potato salad Oliver promised but also stuffed tomatoes, grilled zucchini, something on skewers, a giant bowl of mixed fruit, and mini mason jars filled with what looked like some sort of pudding and topped with whipped cream, which he assumed were for dessert. The food seemed to keep on coming, like she was Mary freaking Poppins and the hamper was the equivalent of her magic carpetbag.
“You were busy,” she said, not bothering to look at him and instead handing one of the skewers to Oliver, who began taking it apart and popping bits of lunch meat, cheese, and olives into his mouth. “Besides, would you have said no?”
Fuck no. Despite what some said about his business practices, he wasn’t completely without compassion. Especially where his son was concerned. But this was no time for weakness, and he wasn’t about to admit she was right.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve for an at-will employee.” Rhys claimed a spot on the other side of the blanket and sat.
“Thanks.” She beamed at him, and he was struck by the almost unnatural color of her eyes. A brown so pale they were almost gold, with flecks of green around her irises. How was it he hadn’t noticed before? “I’ve been working on my nerve.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.” He had to force himself to look away from those unusual, hypnotizing eyes. To distract himself, he grabbed a drumstick and bit into it.
Holy hell. “Delicious” wasn’t a good enough word to describe what was happening inside his mouth. The thick, craggy crust crunched between his teeth. Underneath, the meat was moist and tender. A rivulet of juice dribbled past his lips, and he licked it off before it could escape. Was this what he’d been missing out on by hiding in his office, sneaking into the kitchen after mealtime to make himself sad sandwiches?
“Hey,” Mallory squealed, breaking him out of his food-induced euphoria. “Tha
t’s the main course. You can’t skip the appetizers.”
“It’s anti-pasta on a stick.” Oliver held up what was left of his skewer proudly. “I made them.”
“Antipasto,” Mallory corrected, reaching for the drumstick. Rhys pulled it back.
“One more move like that and you’re fired.” He brought the drumstick back up to his waiting mouth, sank his teeth into the crispy skin, and moaned. “You’re going to have to pry this out of my hands with a crowbar.”
“You can’t fire Mallory.” Oliver stepped between them, her tiny self-appointed protector, brandishing his now-empty skewer at Rhys like a sword. “Then who’d make more chicken?”
Busted. Rhys had to hand it to his son. His logic was infallible.
“Put that down.” Mallory laid a hand on the boy’s forearm and lowered it. “Your father was only kidding. Weren’t you?”
The last was directed at him with an arched brow. Rhys nodded. “Of course I was. Now let’s eat. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can swim.”
…
“I’m stuffed.” Oliver flopped onto his back and let out a loud burp.
“Say excuse me,” Rhys scolded him, spooning the last of his key lime and raspberry pie into his mouth.
Mallory put what little was left of their lunch back into the basket. She’d forgotten how much growing boys could eat. And grown boys, too. Rhys had polished off three—no, four— pieces of chicken by himself. And still had room for dessert. “Burping is considered polite in parts of India, China, and Bahrain. It’s a sign of appreciation for being well fed.”
“Bahrain?” Rhys licked his spoon, dropped it into his empty mason jar, and handed them to her.
She stowed them away with the rest of the lunch remains and closed up the hamper. “It’s a small island nation in the Middle East, south of Kuwait.”
“I’m familiar with it. I’m just surprised you are.”
Mallory bristled, but Rhys continued before she could go on the attack. “No offense intended. I did some business there, but it’s not on most people’s radar.”
“I’m a classically trained chef.” She stood, brushing crumbs off her shorts, and stared down at him. “In case the meal you just wolfed down wasn’t enough to jog your memory. I’m familiar with lots of places and their cuisines.”
Familiar with, yes. Been there, no. She’d started her independence-fueled rebellion small, sticking to the continental United States. But exploring foreign shores was definitely on her post-cancer bucket list.
Of course, it would be better with a companion. Someone seasoned and well-traveled who could show her the ins and outs of globe-trotting. The best each country could offer. Restaurants. Hotels. Museums.
Added points if he was an attractive billionaire who made her heart race and her toes curl just by looking at her.
Stop it.
“Truce.” Said billionaire rose to his feet and extended his hand. “How about we both agree not to jump to conclusions about each other? I won’t assume you’re not worldly enough to know things like the culinary customs of small island countries, and you won’t assume I mean the worst every time I open my mouth.”
“I’m plenty worldly. And I do not assume the worst about you.” She drew herself up to her full five feet, ready to do battle again, then checked herself.
Damn him, he was right. She was jumping to conclusions, assuming that like her father and mother and everyone back home who knew about her illness, he saw her as a fragile flower, in need of constant protection. Not her usual modus operandi. She was more of a glass-half-full, always-look-on-the-bright-side-of-life kind of girl.
What was it about this man that brought out her inner pit bull? And when had his opinion of her become so important?
She didn’t have time to figure it out because Rhys was speaking again, looking at her with a smile that was part snappy comeback, part sexy invitation. “I changed my mind. You’re world-wise and urbane.”
She regarded him semi-suspiciously, knowing he was only half serious. Still, for Oliver’s sake—she swiveled around and was relieved to see he was sitting contentedly cross-legged on the blanket, scraping the sides of his jar with his finger to coax out the last bits of pie—it was best they learn to get along.
After a long minute that felt like an eternity, she took Rhys’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Deal.”
Big. Mistake. The second their fingers touched something hot and molten sparked inside her, racing down her arm to settle between her legs. She jerked her hand away and took a step back, almost tripping over the picnic basket.
“Your turn, Daddy,” Oliver insisted. “You have to burp. Otherwise Mallory will think you don’t like her chicken.”
Mallory silently praised the powers that be for the impatient interruptions of small children. Oliver’s outburst was the cold dose of reality she needed to rein in her raging hormones. As long as he was around, she’d have to keep whatever was going on inside her in check.
Now she just had to make sure he was always around. Shouldn’t be much of a problem. It wasn’t as if Rhys Dalton was dying to be alone with her. The man did everything in his power to steer clear of her. If there was any way he could avoid her completely, she was 100 percent positive he would.
He proved her point by retreating to the UTV under the pretense of retrieving his sunglasses. “I’m fairly certain Mallory knows how I feel about her chicken. I ate three pieces.”
“Four,” Mallory corrected. “But who’s counting?”
“You, apparently.” With his Wayfarers on, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she’d bet her mother’s Tiffany signature pearl-and-white-gold necklace they were laughing at her.
“Can we go swimming now?” Oliver pleaded, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet.
“Not for another fifteen minutes.” Mallory fished a plastic pail and shovel out of her tote bag and held them out to him.
“I think I saw some sea glass over by those rocks.” She gestured to the cliff Oliver had recognized earlier, the one he correctly said looked like a duck. “How about we collect some and take it home? We can put it in jars. Or use it to make something, like a picture frame.”
“For my mom’s picture?” He looked hopefully at his father.
Rhys nodded stiffly. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Oliver grabbed the pail and raced across the sand, leaving the adults behind without a backward glance. “I’m gonna find all the blue pieces. I like those best.”
“So did Beth,” Rhys mused under his breath, making Mallory wonder if he realized she was still within earshot. “She said it was the hardest color to find. She loved reverse gems.”
“Reverse gems?”
“Traditional gems like diamonds are made by nature and refined by man,” Rhys explained. “Sea glass is made by man but refined by nature. That’s how Beth liked to describe it.”
Mallory stared down at her bare feet, digging her toes into the sand. She’d somehow managed to forget his late wife’s tie to the picnic spot she’d chosen. Or deliberately pushed it to the back of her mind.
“I’m sorry for bringing you here.” It sounded so inadequate, so hollow, but she couldn’t come up with anything more fitting.
Rhys stared down the beach at the distant form of his son, squatting down to sift through the sand and stones. Whether it was because Rhys couldn’t or wouldn’t look at her, Mallory wasn’t sure.
“You had no way of knowing,” he said finally, his voice flat and expressionless. Either he had no emotions—which clearly wasn’t true from the flashes of warmth she’d seen between him and his son—or he was fighting to keep them under control.
“Oliver figured it out pretty quickly. If I had paid more attention to the picture…”
“The one you stole?”
He turned to face her, and she wished he hadn’t. His face was a mix of amusement and angst.
“About that…”
“Stop.” He held up a hand.
“It was a joke. A bad one.”
“No, you’re right.” She coughed, trying to disguise the crack in her voice. “I shouldn’t have taken it without permission. Or forced you to come here. The whole point was to bring you and Oliver closer together. Not stir up painful memories.”
“If I’m honest, it wasn’t anywhere near as painful as I’d expected it to be. It was more…”
He looked out across the horizon and ran a hand through his windswept hair as he searched for the right word.
“Poignant?” she offered in a half whisper. That was how it felt whenever she visited the hospital where she’d lost so many friends. Sweet and sad and strange.
“Yes, that’s it.” His shoulders sagged, and he removed his sunglasses to pinch his brow. “Poignant.”
His unshuttered eyes found hers, and they shared a moment of profound understanding, one wounded warrior to another. The intensity of their connection shocked her. It was like for that brief sliver of time they shared one breath, one pulse, one heartbeat.
She looked away, breaking the invisible thread between them, and sat down on the blanket, hugging her knees to her chest and staring out at the ocean. “I can see why she loved it here.”
Mallory felt rather than saw Rhys take a spot on the blanket next to her. “It was Beth’s idea to buy this island. She wanted somewhere for us to relax and unwind as a family, away from the city.”
“She sounds like a smart lady.”
“Smarter than me in a lot of ways.” He stretched out his legs and toed off his Tevas. “I never really appreciated this place until she was gone. Spent too much time worrying about work.”
Fighting the temptation to focus on the toned, tanned legs teasing her peripheral vision, Mallory swiveled her head in the direction Oliver had wandered. He sat cross-legged, bucket in one hand and shovel in the other, digging in the sand just above the waterline. Reassured that the son was out of harm’s way, Mallory turned her attention back to his father. “You were trying to build a future for your family. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“So what’s my excuse now?” Rhys lay back, resting on his forearms, and studied the cloudless sky. “Our future is pretty secure.”
