Page 20 of Hired For the Billionaire's Secret Son

That she was great for Mat was no surprise, and his little boy was calmer when she was around, less anxious. There was something about her energy that soothed, and it didn’t only work on his little boy. Sometimes, while working on a design, he’d find himself getting frustrated and he’d lift his head and hear Ollie singing to Mat, or tickling him, their laughter mingling. He’d immediately feel calmer, more focused. When she was around, he felt both energised and relaxed, turned on and laid back. It was as if he existed in two states at one time, something that had never happened to him before.

And he liked her, more than any woman he’d met before. She was funny and smart, and he loved the fact that he didn’t intimidate her, that she called a spade a spade and wasn’t afraid to point out the mistakes he made with Mat. But, instead of making him feel like he was incapable or clumsy, she gently guided him in all Mat-related tasks, pleased when he got things right or remembered something, and patient when he took a little longer to recall what he needed to do.

He was learning so much from her: not only how to look after Mat’s physical needs but how to connect with his son on an emotional level. He’d scoffed when she’d suggested that he spend fifteen minutes reading to Mat before he put him in his cot to sleep—he’d protested, saying he was too young and wouldn’t understand. But after two nights Bo had realised it wasn’t about the words, or Mat’s understanding, but about connecting with his son.

Unfortunately, she still had to remind him to cuddle Mat, something that didn’t come naturally to him. He did love him, and understood that he should hug his son, but didn’t know how to do it or how often. And that was a huge source of embarrassment. He was a grown man, but he had no idea how to express affection. So he copied Ollie, watching how she wrapped her arms around Matheo’s little body and held him tight; how she kissed his cheek, ran her hand over his head and down his arm.

Initially, he’d felt weird, but he was getting better. He had to have this nailed before Ollie left. Mat’s next nanny might not be as patient or, almost certainly, he might not have the same connection to her as he did to Ollie. If he didn’t learn everything he could from Ollie now, he might be in big trouble down the line.

And why was she so attached to that end-of-summer date? Why couldn’t she stay longer; why wasn’t she flexible? There was so much he wanted to know about Olivia Cooper, far more than he needed to know about the woman who was looking after his son. Much more than he’d wanted to know about any woman before her.

And that terrified him.

The sound of a gong reverberated through the house and the guests started walking towards the dining room. Ollie, looking nervous again, slipped her hand into his, her fingers interlocking with his.

It was second nature to snatch his hand away, to detach his fingers from hers. His actions were partly because he wasn’t affectionate, but mostly because he was in the habit of keeping a certain distance between himself and his female companions in public. There had been so many women in the past who’d tried to give the impression that they were more than friends, that he was their significant other, and hand-holding was something they’d all seemed to have in common. It was a way to silently shout, ‘Look, I have him, he’s mine’. Shutting down the hand-holding, not allowing them to rest their heads on his shoulder as they talked in a group and keeping his physical distance had been his way of showing the world that she was his date for the evening, not a potential love interest.

Bo looked down at Ollie and saw the hurt in her eyes, her flushed pink cheeks. He’d embarrassed her, and he hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t let her or anyone think that she was anyone special, that she would be the one to snare him, to become the first Mrs Bo Sørenson.

That wasn’t going to happen. Marriage and love weren’t for him—they couldn’t be. Not even with this woman who made him feel so much.

In the ladies’ bathroom, Ollie cursed her burning eyes and blinked back her very unwelcome tears. Bo had treated her as if she had a contagious disease, and his jerking his hand away from hers had hurt more than it should have. She’d just wanted some reassurance that she was doing okay, to know that he wouldn’t abandon her, but he’d made her feel like Typhoid Mary.

Yes, he was her boss, and maybe she’d stepped over the line, but hadn’t this entire evening been one huge experiment in over-stepping? From the moment she’d agreed to accompany him to this ball, she’d jumped over the barrier between professionalism and personal, and now she was paying the price for being an idiot.

She was just the nanny doing the boss a favour.

Ollie looked at her reflection in the huge, framed mirror and thought that the bathroom was more suited to a hotel than someone’s house. There were two stalls, two basins, a huge mirror and enough lotions and potions stocked by an exclusive cosmetic supplier to keep the hands of dozens of socialites soft and smooth.

Ollie washed her hands, checked that no mascara had landed on her cheeks and pulled her lipstick out of her clutch bag. She didn’t need it but reapplying it would give her a minute, maybe two, before she had to pull up her big girl panties and walk back into that room where she felt she didn’t belong.

For the first time in ages, she longed to be home, sitting at the battered table in her parents’ kitchen, listening to hergogo, her mother’s mother, when she’d been visiting from South Africa—recounting yet again how she’d met Nelson Mandela when he’d still been a young lawyer in Soweto.

Her eldest brother had studied in London, eventually become a UK citizen and had opened a branch of his family’s business there. Before they’d established their business in the UK, her parents had both been staunch anti-apartheid activists, and people assumed her white dad was the privileged one, the one who’d gone to university. Actually, it was the other way round—it was her mum who came from a wealthy family and had studied at the top university in the country. Her dad’s parents hadn’t been able to afford to send him to university to further his studies. It was her dad who’d worked a ten-hours-a-day blue-collar job and who’d studied after hours for his accounting degree. As a result, both her parents felt a university education was a privilege and that it was never to be wasted.

Ollie understood where they were coming from but she wished they’d accept that she’d found something she loved better—okay, she’d never loved accountancy, she was just good at it—and that being a nanny was a good, steady job.

She’d been given five years of freedom, and in return she’d agreed that she would return to the UK and work for their accounting business for five years. It was time to pay the piper.

So, instead of getting herself in a state about the fact that her boss wouldn’t hold her hand—how old was she, thirteen?—she should give up her dream of buying into Sabine’s business and start planning her return to join the London branch of her parents’ firm and a life filled with figures. And boredom.

As for Bo, well, even if she wasn’t leaving and she was interested in a relationship with him—she wasn’t!—he didn’t do relationships and he wasn’t into making any sort of commitments to anybody. According to the many articles about him she’d read online, he only ever engaged in brief affairs. So expecting him to hold her hand, expecting anything from him, was simply stupid.

And she was not a stupid girl. She was a girl who was leaving the country in less than two months and, in time, he’d be just another boss she’d worked for.

But as Ollie walked into that huge dining room, one of the last to sit down at the extra-long table, she saw Bo stand up to pull her chair out, his hot eyes on her face, a small, apologetic smile on his lips. Ollie reluctantly admitted he wasn’t someone she’d easily forget.

Or forget at all. Worse than that, he was the one man she’d probably have a lot of trouble walking away from.

Maybe she was a stupid girl after all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AFTERSTANDINGBACKto let Ollie into his house, Bo waved goodbye to Greta and closed the front door behind them. Conscious of her aching feet, as she wasn’t used to wearing heels, Ollie kicked off her shoes and placed her clutch bag on the hallway table.

She bent over to massage one foot, then the other, thinking that it was his fault her feet were on fire. Despite his refusing to hold her hand, she’d spent half the evening in his arms, being expertly whirled around the dance floor. She silently thanked hergogo, who’d ferried her to ballet, tap, modern and ballroom dance lessons for most of her childhood and into her teens. She’d felt many eyes on them, and was grateful that the great and good of Danish society wouldn’t judge her for having two left feet.

Picking up the hem of her dress from the floor, Ollie swallowed a yawn. She was in that weird state of feeling both energised and exhausted, and in a few hours she’d be waking up to look after Matheo. Nine-month-old little boys didn’t care if you’d spent the night in a fancy dress, drinking lovely champagne: they wanted a fresh nappy, breakfast and attention. And not necessarily in that order.

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