Page 16 of Faking it with the Billionaire
I open up the plastic bin and grab a pint of raspberries, rinsing them off before handing her the dripping-wet container.
“It’s wet!” she squeals and shucks water at me from her little fingers.
Thanks, kid.
“Grab a paper towel.” I gesture to the counter, trying to make her self-sufficient.
“It’s too tall. I can’t reach, and Daddy puts the fruit into a plastic bowl for me.” Bristol points at the cabinet and waggles her finger, waiting for it to open.
“Do you know magic or something?” I chide, glancing at her. “Because last I checked, wiggling a finger doesn’t open cabinet doors. Unless you go to Hogwarts, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a magic curriculum at Briarwood.”
“You need a wand, silly, but there could be!” Bristol giggles. “Abracadabra, open the cabra—net.”
Shaking my head, I give in, using just one finger to pull the cabinet open. I retrieve a pink plastic bowl and hold out my hand for the raspberry container. I dump the contents into the bowl and wait for her to use the magic words I’m looking for. Either apleaseorthank youwould suffice.
“Thank you,” she says with a wide-eyed, eager grin, and I hand the fruit back to her in the bowl.
She’s a cute kid. Spoiled beyond compare, but that isn’t her fault. Her father is a billionaire.
For the next couple of hours, I have her seated at the kitchen table going over her homework assignments, which are far more than I remember doing in the first grade.
The sound of a car door slamming sets my adrenaline pumping. “Stay here,” I say as I waltz out of the kitchen and head toward the front of the house, glancing conspicuously out the window.
Kyler stands outside, his cell phone pressed against his ear as he talks animatedly to whomever he’s on the phone with. He doesn’t look particularly pleased with the caller.
“Emmie!” Bristol calls for me, and I exhale a heavy breath and make my way back into the kitchen. “Is this right?” she asks, wanting me to check her work.
Thankfully, she’s only in the first grade and not the eleventh or twelfth. I can easily handle glancing over her work, except for her math, where she’s shown her work is a bit of a nightmare. I can’t even fathom how she came up with the answer that she did, but it is right.
“Yeah, that looks good,” I say, cringing.
“Then why are you making that face?” Bristol asks, staring up at me.
Saved by the sound of the front door. Kyler heads inside the house, and Bristol jumps up from the kitchen table and tears out to the hallway, sliding on the wood floor in her socks to greet her father.
“Daddy!” Bristol squeals excitedly, and he holds out his arms for her as she runs right for him. He lifts her, spinning her around and giving her a hug.
The girl is six. She’s not a toddler, but neither seems to care. She’s having fun, and he can still practically toss her around without hurting his back.
“You’re late,” I say a little more tersely than I intend.
His gaze moves from Bristol to me. “I can’t exactly leave practice because you want me home.”
“Give us a minute, sweetie,” I say to Bristol, yanking Kyler out of the hallway and away from Bristol’s little ears.
“Sweetie? I didn’t know we were starting on pet names,” Kyler jokes to me. He’s trying to disarm the situation. At least, I think that’s his intent, because the anger sizzling seems to dissipate when his eyes shine down, almost as if he were smiling.
“This,” I say, gesturing between us, “is a business arrangement. I’m not your daughter’s nanny. I’m the bodyguard. You shouldn’t be expecting me to babysit your daughter.”
“Got it. I’ll hire a nanny,” he says a little too quickly.
“And what do you plan on telling Bristol? Since she thinks I’m her nanny.” I fold my arms across my chest, waiting for him to think up a brilliant excuse to fix the predicament he’s found us both in.
“Obviously, not the truth,” he says, his gaze sending a shiver down my spine. My insides are toasty the longer his gaze lingers, and I feel the heat of his breath against my cheeks. He takes a step closer, pinning me back against the wall.
He doesn’t touch me.
The man doesn’t have to, and I’m still practically a puddle of goo. The wall holds me up as I exhale a nervous breath.
