Page 16 of Hired For the Billionaire's Secret Son

CHAPTER SIX

AFEWDAYSLATER, Bo looked out of his study window and watched Ollie move her supple body from one yoga pose to another. Mat sat on the blanket next to her, and Ollie occasionally stopped to hand him a toy or to talk to him. She was incredibly patient and didn’t seem to mind that he was interrupting her yoga routine.

Bo was grateful she wore a T-shirt over her brief exercise shorts, ones that hit her mid-thigh, although the shirt didn’t cover much when she had her butt in the air. Bo told himself to walk away; he shouldn’t be ogling his nanny and thinking about how her amazing body would feel under his hands. If he didn’t, he’d walk out there and kiss her senseless again. And this time, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from going past the point of no return. Ollie, inexplicably, seemed to want him as much as he wanted her, so she wouldn’t be the one to put the brakes on...

He had the hots for his nanny. It was so tacky, so Hollywood.

Forcing himself to turn away, Bo walked over to the drafting board in the corner of his study, knowing he needed to get some work done. He’d managed a little, not very much at all, and he was so far behind it was ridiculous. But it was still only the second week since Mat’s arrival and he was taking the time for his son to get used to him. And for him to get used to Mat.

On his desk, his phone vibrated and Bo scooped it up, grimacing when he saw his mother’s name on the screen. At some point, he’d have to tell her that she was a grandmother and it was news that wouldn’t excite her. It was hard enough for her to see and spend time with Bo, and she wouldn’t be prepared to give Mat any attention. There was no play in her emotional rope.

He greeted Bridget—he’d started calling her Bridget in his late teens to goad her, but had been quickly informed that she preferred it to ‘Mum’. He rubbed the back of his neck as his mother launched into a description of the latest deal she’d concluded and how much money she made. Honestly, he didn’t care.

‘And you?’ Bridget demanded. ‘Are you on track to make your third-quarter projections?’

He had no idea. He presumed so. His accountant hadn’t told him otherwise.

‘Business is good, Bridget.’ He grimaced at the design on his easel. It would be a lot better if he could finish his designs.

‘You sound distracted, Boland,’ she retorted. ‘That’s not like you. What’s happened?’

Bo was not about to tell her about Mat over the phone. No, he’d need to ply her with a couple of martinis first before telling her she was a grandmother.

‘I’m fine, just busy.’

She didn’t speak for a few beats, and Bo knew it was her way to get him to fill the silence. Nope, that wasn’t going to happen. He hadn’t fallen for that trick since he’d been eight. Bridget eventually huffed and he easily imagined her blue eyes narrowed with frustration. Bridget didn’t love him—he didn’t think she even liked him—but she enjoyed the cachet of being his mother. And, like all self-centred people, she hated being out of the loop.

Tough.He hated the fact that she’d never tried to connect with him emotionally.

‘So I presume I will see you at the ball tonight?’ Bridget said, her voice taking on an extra edge of crispness.

Ball? What ball?‘Sorry, what are you talking about?’

‘Darling...’ Bo didn’t react to the endearment; she called everyone darling. ‘It’s the social event of the season, and the last before everyone scatters to take their summer holiday. You RSVP’d months ago. I know you did, because I saw Freja’s guest list, and you said you would attend with a guest.’

Bridget and Freja, along with a couple of their cronies, were the doyennes of the country’s A-list social scene and were not to be crossed. Not if he wanted to keep getting invitations to the events his clients—the rich and famous, the people who were in the market to buy yachts—attended. The balls and cocktail parties were endlessly tedious but his attendance was expected and it was where many a deal was initiated.

‘Henry Foo will be there,’ Bridget stated, more than a little smugly.

Henry Foo? Really?He was a Hong Kong banker who’d recently purchased the famous Spirit of the East racing team. Bo had heard that Henry Foo was looking to upgrade. The Sørensons had a long history with the Spirit of the East team: his grandfather had designed one of their first winning yachts, and his father another. It would make history if he could design a third, incorporating the newest technology.

‘Who are you bringing to the ball, darling? Do I know her?’

Bo closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his hand tightening around his phone. He’d meant to find a date, but he’d forgotten. And he could not rock up at the ball solo: that would a social faux pas, especially at such late notice.

Bo ended the call, swore and rubbed his hand over his face. He was in a world of hurt here, and he mentally ran through his long list of potential dates. It was time to start phoning around...

‘Problem?’ Ollie asked, walking into the room with Mat on her hip. Before he could answer, his housekeeper called Ollie’s name and she turned round. Greta bustled into his study—it was like Copenhagen Central Station at rush hour this morning—and cooed at Mat before taking him from Ollie. His housekeeper was enamoured by his son and Mat spent a great deal of time with her on the mornings she cleaned his house—somehow she managed to get everything done with Mat on her hip.

Bo looked at the folder in Ollie’s hands and knew she wanted him to look at the CVs for a nanny to replace her. The idea made his head, and heart, hurt.

‘Well?’ Ollie demanded after Greta had left the room. ‘What’s wrong?’

Bo looked down at his phone and sighed, frustrated. ‘I need a date for a function tonight—one I forgot about, and that’s very unlike me.’

Ollie rested the water bottle against her flushed cheek and he thought that she looked stunning with her skin flushed pink from exercise. ‘It’s no wonder you forgot. Mat’s arrival was bound to push other less important things out of your head.’

He pushed an agitated hand through his hair. ‘Normally I’d send my apologies and blow it off, but I’ve just heard the hostess has arranged for me to meet a man I want to impress.’

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