Chapter Twelve

Rhys had a new favorite hobby.

Watching Mallory sleep.

Bordering on creepy stalker? Maybe. But that wasn’t stopping him from taking advantage of the rare opportunity to study her openly, unobserved.

She lay in his arms, her breathing deep and even. No makeup. Hair strewn all over her pillow, a few stray strands stuck to her cheek. Kiss-swollen lips slightly parted, an occasional soft snore escaping between them.

Christ, even her snoring was adorable.

Yeah, he wasn’t just verging on creepy stalker. He’d crossed the border into Christian Grey territory.

He would have continued staring at her until the alarm on her cell phone went off, but nature was calling. He tore his eyes away from the object of his obsession and eased his way out of her embrace. He was halfway to the bathroom when a sharp, high-pitched scream split the heavy summer night air.

Oliver.

Rhys went into crisis mode, scrambling for his long-ago-discarded clothes, but Mallory, who’d been dead to the world seconds before, somehow got the jump on him. She threw on shorts and a T-shirt and was out the door before he had one leg in his boxers.

Another scream had him moving triple time. He raced barefoot across the hall to Oliver’s bedroom, skidding to a stop inside the doorway. Mallory was seated on the bed with Oliver cradled in her arms, rocking him back and forth and crooning. Moonlight streaming in through the slats of the blinds bathed them in streaks of silver.

“Shh.” She stroked Oliver’s hair, plastered to his damp forehead. “It’s only a nightmare.”

Oliver lifted his pale, tearstained face. “Mommy?”

Mallory’s shoulders stiffened, the movement so slight it was barely perceptible, but she didn’t correct him. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Rhys’s gut twisted, his son’s one-word plea a dagger through his heart. He was adult enough to know it was totally normal for a child to call for his mother. And that it was pointless for Mallory to correct Oliver. But that didn’t make it any easier on his psyche.

“Is there anything I can do?” He hated feeling so goddamn helpless. Out on the cliff, he had a purpose. Getting his son to safety. Something to push his fear to the back of his mind and force him to take action. Now all he could do was stand, paralyzed, while Oliver kicked and thrashed, his reddish-brown eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

As if on cue, Oliver’s eyelids drooped, and he went limp in Mallory’s arms. She laid him down and pulled the blanket up to his chest.

“Is he okay?” Rhys asked, keeping his voice low.

“Night terror,” she explained, smoothing Oliver’s hair back. “Has he had them before?”

“No.” Rhys took a tentative step into the room. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“He’ll be fine.” She stood and bent to adjust the blanket.

“Did you see what I saw? He was terrified.”

Mallory stroked Oliver’s cheek and straightened. “Trust me, he won’t remember any of it in the morning. It was more frightening for you than it was for him.”

As scared as he’d been, Rhys found that hard to believe. He’d seen the terror in his son’s eyes. But for Oliver’s sake, he hoped Mallory was right. “How do you know so much about this stuff? Don’t tell me you’re a sleep specialist and a chef?”

“Hardly. I used to have night terrors when I was Oliver’s age, but I grew out of them. I’m sure he will, too.” Mallory glanced back at Oliver, his blanket rising and falling with each rhythmic inhale and exhale, and lowered her voice. “Let’s talk outside.”

Rhys nodded. Mallory followed him into the hall and closed the door behind her, making sure not to let the latch click.

“About what Oliver said in there…” Her voice trailed off.

“When he called you ‘Mommy’?” Rhys winced at the last word. It wasn’t one he’d heard much in the past three years, and it conjured images of Oliver and Beth together, images that were both hurtful and heartwarming.

“It didn’t mean anything.” Mallory stared up at him, her eyes begging him to believe her.

“I know.”

“He was dreaming,” she insisted. “He had no idea what he was saying.”

“I know.”

“I’m not trying to replace his mother. I’d never do that.”

Of course she wouldn’t. Sure, it was a punch in the gut to hear his son mistake Mallory for Beth, but Rhys didn’t think for one minute it was something Mallory encouraged or even wanted.

Words weren’t going to convince her he understood, but maybe actions would. He stepped closer, backing her against the wall. She blinked, surprised, as he ducked his head and captured her mouth, silencing her. Her lips parted on a sigh and she pushed up on tiptoe, snaking her arms around his neck and pressing her soft breasts against his chest.

He meant the kiss to be gentle, reassuring. But her more-than-enthusiastic response shot that plan to hell, and within seconds it turned hot and hungry. They kissed like teenagers, their hands roaming but never slipping under their scant clothing.

She pulled away, biting her lip in that adorable way that always made him hard. “It’s almost five. I should get some sleep before sunrise. And you should go back downstairs before Oliver wakes up again.”

She was right. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He let his arms fall and took a step back. “See you at breakfast?”

She raised one foot to scratch the back of her leg. She’d changed her nail polish again, this time to a neon green. “If you can pry yourself away from your work.”

“I will if you make that French toast Oliver likes so much.”

“Oliver?” One arched brow lifted further.

He held his hands up, palms out, in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, me. Although in my defense, Oliver’s a big fan, too.”

“Since you put it that way, sure.”

He gave her one last kiss and headed down the hall, forgetting until he was at the bottom of the stairs that he’d left the rest of his clothes in her room. He thought about going back for them, then shrugged it off. It wasn’t like what he and Mallory were doing was a secret from anyone but Oliver.

If their relationship was going to continue—and he hoped to hell it was—that would have to change. As would the fact that he was paying Mallory to work for him during the day and sleeping with her at night.

The arrangement left a bad taste in his mouth. He meant what he told Mallory. This wasn’t just fucking for him. For the first time in a long time he wanted something more, a real connection with someone who shared not only his bed but his hopes, his dreams, his life.

A connection that sounded a lot like love.

The unexpected appearance of the L-word made him stop short. Was that where he and Mallory were headed? He’d only loved one woman in his life. After Beth’s death, he never imagined he could love again.

But Beth had. She not only imagined it, she hoped for it. She hadn’t wanted him to spend the rest of his life alone and in mourning.

It was too much for his sleep-deprived brain to process. He yawned and raked a hand through his bedhead. His mattress was calling to him. Maybe after some shut-eye the answer to his dilemma would miraculously appear.

…

“Mail for you, dear.” Mrs. Flannigan held out a thin white envelope to Mallory as she entered the kitchen.

Mallory stretched and yawned, the effects of another late night of bedroom gymnastics compounded by Oliver’s night terror still catching up to her. She took the envelope and set it down next to the Keurig. Whatever it was, it could wait until she got her morning caffeine injection. She took a mug from the rack next to the machine, stuck it under the dispenser, popped a K-Cup into the basket, and hit the start button. “Thanks.”

“I couldn’t help but notice the return address,” the housekeeper mused as she stood at the counter, continuing to sort through the rest of the mail. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

Mallory glanced down at the envelope. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized the logo for Heritage Labs.

Her blood test results. They’d gotten pushed to the back of her brain by the next-level sex and Oliver’s night terror. Not that she could ever really forget she was a cancer survivor. It was an invisible badge stamped on her soul that branded her as indelibly as Hester Prynne’s scarlet A.

But it had been nice to pretend to be normal for a while.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Mrs. Flannigan prodded.

“It’s nothing,” Mallory lied, snatching up the envelope and stuffing it into the back pocket of her capris. “Some routine blood work for my annual physical.”

The housekeeper eyed Mallory over the top of the Williams Sonoma catalog she was leafing through. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Mallory had to swallow fast to keep from spitting out her first sip of coffee.

“Um, no,” she said when she’d recovered. “No chance of that.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Flannigan asked, setting the catalog down and focusing all of her attention on Mallory.

“Yes, I’m sure.” More than sure. She and Rhys had used protection religiously. Even without it, her chances of getting pregnant, while not nonexistent, were less than optimal, a side effect of chemotherapy and another reminder of the toll cancer had taken on her body.

Which was why that one word from Oliver—“Mommy”—had been like a dose of cold, hard reality. As much as she’d grown to care for him, she wasn’t his mommy, and she might never be anyone’s mommy. That was something she’d learned to accept. But what about Rhys? He said he wanted more than a physical relationship. Would he still want that when she told him the truth?

“Pity.” The housekeeper sighed, thankfully interrupting Mallory’s somber stream of thought before she drowned in self-pity. “This house could use the pitter-patter of more little feet. And Oliver could do with a younger brother or sister. Although I suppose it would be best if you and Mr. Dalton got married first.”

Married? This time Mallory couldn’t stop herself from spewing coffee all over her shirt.

“Now, Millie,” Mr. Flannigan scolded, walking through the door with an armful of groceries. “I thought we agreed not to meddle in the young folks’ love life.”

Young folks? Mallory couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard that phrase. If ever. She traded her coffee mug for a napkin and dabbed at her stained shirt.

Mrs. Flannigan took the bags from her husband and put them on the counter. “You agreed. I crossed my fingers behind my back.”

“Remember what happened the last time you tried to play matchmaker?” He fished an apple out of one of the bags and bit into it.

“They got married, didn’t they?”

“And divorced three years later.”

Mrs. Flannigan ignored her husband and began pulling out groceries and lining them up on the counter for inspection. “Did you get the baker’s yeast?”

“Was it on the list?”

“Yes.”

“Then I got it.”

“Let me take care of that,” Mallory said, stepping in between them. “I’m sure you have plenty of other chores on your to-do list.”

“Well…” Mrs. Flannigan hesitated. “The laundry’s overflowing. I should get that started.”

“Go.” Mallory shouldered the housekeeper out of the way and reached into one of the bags. “I’ll finish up here and start breakfast.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Don’t mind Millie,” Mr. Flannigan half whispered so his retreating wife wouldn’t overhear. “She means well. After everything Mr. Dalton’s been through, she wants to see him happy. We all do. And you make him the happiest he’s been in years.”

“I wish I were as sure of that as you are,” Mallory admitted, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“Don’t sell yourself short. Millie and I have worked for Mr. Dalton for more than six years. Ever since he and his late wife bought this place. For the first time since her death, his days are more than working, eating, and sleeping. He’s living again. Smiling. Laughing. Playing with his son. And that’s all because of you.”

Mallory emptied the last of the groceries from the bags and started stowing the perishables in the refrigerator. “You give me an awful lot of credit.”

“You deserve it. But it comes with a lot of responsibility. Letting someone in—trusting again, loving again—is a big step for him. Don’t make him regret it.”

The caretaker gave her a polite nod that told her he’d said his piece and headed off in the opposite direction of his wife, crunching his apple as he went. Mallory let his words sink in as he disappeared.

Rhys said it himself last night. This thing between them wasn’t casual. And it wasn’t only their hearts on the line. Oliver had a lot to lose, too.

With a weary sigh, she closed the refrigerator door and leaned against it. It was time to come clean. She and Rhys were already in too deep. He deserved to know about her medical history and all the baggage that dragged along with it.

But first she had to know her test results. She pulled the envelope from her back pocket and tore it open, quick and dirty, like ripping off a Band-Aid. She took out the single sheet of paper inside and unfolded it, letting the envelope float to the floor.

White blood cell count—normal. Red blood cell count—normal. Platelets, proteins, sugar, electrolytes, enzymes—all normal.

Mallory let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and slumped down to the floor, her back resting against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest, not bothering to wipe away the lone, relieved tear streaming down her cheek. She’d dodged another bullet. But there would be more. Her life was a series of scares. There was always the chance she’d have a late recurrence or second cancer.

Rhys had already lost one wife. And his mother, to cancer no less. He had a right to know the risk he was taking getting involved with her.

If she could only figure out how to tell him.