Page 12 of Bully Wolf's Nanny
“Yeah. I wanted something different than the wood lodges and ski chalet knock-offs in town. Not really my style.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she said. He couldn’t say for certain, but there seemed to be a definite bite of bitterness in her voice.
He swallowed thickly, and didn’t respond.
They were nearly at the gates now, sleek chrome nestled amongst the evergreens. They were already opening for him as he sailed through into the carefully curated winding drive towards his house. Every tree, every rock, every patch of moss had been meticulously placed to create a sense of controlled wilderness. That’s what his landscaper had said, anyway. And then something about balancing chaos and order. She’d seemed very certain of herself, and Nicolas had been too busy with Nero to really care.
But now, as the smooth ochre wood and shining glass planes of his house came into view around a corner, he suddenly saw his home through new eyes—through Daisy’s. Where before the sleek architecture had just been a passing facet of his life, a charming and suitable necessity, he now saw only monstrous over-indulgence.
His teeth ground together. What the hell was wrong with him? Why should he care at all about what some sillygirl thought about his house? Billionaires and politicians and movie stars and alphas had been awed by his style, his flair, his immaculate taste. They had wandered through the rooms, slack-jawed and glass-eyed, marveling at every new technological delight. And here he was, worrying about what Daisy thought of it all.
He risked glancing at her. Her mouth was parted, plump lips open in shock, green eyes wide with childish wonder.
“This is your house?”
“It is,” he said, pulling up in front of the large bay doors.
“It’s, it’s…” she trailed off, blinking as she took in the vast sprawl of property.
Nicolas couldn’t help the swell of masculine pride in his chest at her blatant admiration. “Does it meet your standards?”
Her eyes narrowed then, the green dimming somewhat. “I suppose your wife must love it.”
“My…what?”
“Your wife. Girlfriend. Mother of your child?”
Nicolas blinked a few times before his mouth pulled up in a sneer. “If you’re talking aboutFrancesca, the last time I saw her was when she dropped Gracie on my doorstep a year ago as a newborn.”
Daisy’s lips formed a silent “oh,” her cheeks flushing slightly red. “I thought…that is…”
“You assumed,” Nicolas said tersely, opening the car door with slightly more force than was perhaps necessary. “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from assumptions in the future. It would save us both a lot of grief.”
“Right,” Daisy replied meekly, scrambling out of the car, smoothing the fabric of her plain blue dress, “I’m sorry.”
Something ugly and uncomfortable roiled deep within him at her trembling tone, and he sighed, shutting the car door with a decisive bang. He ignored the way it made her jump.
For one brief, terrifying moment, he felt the overwhelming urge to lay it all bare. All their history, ugly and twisted as it was. It hung between them, heavy and bloated, and Nicolas felt the weight of his own unspoken words as keenly as a yoke.
But then Daisy turned towards the house, and the moment passed.
It wouldn’t do to dredge up ancient history. What was done was done. It wasn’t like Daisy would believe anything he had to say, not after what he’d done to her. Even if he somehow found the courage to tell her the truth of it, to tell her what he had really felt all those years ago…
He knew it would only break her heart further.
So instead, he picked up her suitcase out of the back seat, ignoring her protests, and brushed past her to the front door.
It had taken nearly two weeks to finalize all the paperwork, sort out all the necessary arrangements. In that time, Nicolas hadn’t seen Daisy at all. All their communication had been through the agency.
Which was fine. It was what the agency was for. Even if they’d had to nervously ask Nicolas to stop contacting them so often regarding everything being completed.
But completed it was. And now Daisy was here, in his house.
He didn’t quite know what to make of the strange sensation in his stomach.
Nicolas watched as she glanced around, nervously removing her shoes, her eyes catching on the rare art pieces hanging from the walls, the statues, the marble. The only request he had made to the interior design company was to evoke a sense of ancient Rome. History, after all, had been his favorite subject. They had fulfilled his request with a delightfully modern twist, marrying the grand iconography of the emperors of old with the rich cedar and pine of his home territory.
“What time is your daughter getting here?” he asked, placing her suitcase down by the grand, sweeping staircase.
