Mr. Hot Grinch (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss 3)

Annnndddd, I’m not going there.

Not while Feeney is watching me. I can feel her narrowed, slightly shocking green eyes burning through me.

“Pizza?”

“Yay! Pizza!”

“Pizza sounds better than what I was trying to make anyway,” Feeney whispers. She’s embarrassed, but god knows I don’t know what to do or say to make her feel better. I mean, burning macaroni? Really?

She doesn’t supply what kind of pizza, so when I order, I order the normal cheese for Shade—because what four-year-old eats anything other than cheese—and pepperoni for us. I hope Feeney’s not a vegetarian, but then I suddenly realize what she was trying to cook in the pan. Sausage. That’s about all I had in the freezer since the last nanny quit. As for me, I haven’t been very good at cooking for a long time. We eat out way too often, but we get the healthy stuff too, not just the bad stuff. Still, maybe I should give her a break.

I don’t really know how not to be an asshole, so I turn to Feeney. Apparently, I lack subtlety and tact as well. “I wouldn’t leave those pots for the cleaner tomorrow. She’ll pitch a fit if she finds them.”

“They’re good pots too,” Feeney groans. “They’re heavy and expensive. I can tell. Don’t worry. I’ll get them clean.”

That would take a minor miracle, and this from someone who burns pasta, but I keep my mouth shut. I suppose I can be nice by not being an asshole. The old double negative trick. Maybe not, because I just can’t seem to help myself.

“It might be worth looking up a good cleaning method from a site other than the one you got cooking instructions from.”

Feeney whirls around to the sink, but she’s not fast enough to hide the red that floods her face. Anger? Embarrassment? Both? Whatever it is, I’m struck by how pretty she looks. Maybe that’s why I did it—stuck some salt in those mortified wounds. Why? I guess I deserve it. Now I have to contend with the image of Feeney looking pretty for the rest of the evening. That thought doesn’t settle well in my gut. I haven’t so much as even noticed what a woman looked like for a very long time, and it makes me uncomfortable now.

Feeney fumes silently at the sink. She won’t turn around and look at me, which is for the best. I’d apologize, but it would mean having to look at her again, and I just can’t handle it tonight. I’ve managed for two years with other nannies coming and going, but this one, this is the one that matters, and I already know we’re on a crash course for disaster—also, not just a regular disaster but the kind of disaster that ruins a person. I’m not ready. I know I’m not ready.

So, of course, I do the thing that comes most naturally. I run.

“If we hurry, we can get a game of football in before the pizza comes.”

Shade perks up at that. He loves football, all kinds of football. He gets that I’m talking about video games, and he loves those too. It might be unhealthy to play them as much as we do, but whatever. We spend time together, and we like doing it. It takes us out of ourselves for an hour or two when we need it most. What’s wrong with that?

I should just go. Go down to the basement where the video game console and the big TV are set up. I should, but I can’t. I have my back turned, and I quickly brief her for tomorrow so I can try and get away from her tonight. Because, for some unfathomable reason, I just need to for my own sake. It’s not really because I need to have the last word. I don’t care about that because I don’t do caring—caring and getting involved are both things I intentionally don’t do.

“I’ll be gone by seven-thirty, and I’ll be back by five. You’re on your own until then. Whatever you do, can you just make sure you don’t reduce the place to ashes while I’m gone?”

I scoop Shade up in my arms and let the sounds of his gleeful giggles and screams drown out Feeney’s no doubt snappy, churlish response.CHAPTER 6FeeneyI’m already awake when Luke slips out to work the next morning. I slept terribly, of course. My first night in a bed that wasn’t my own in a good long while. Half the night, I spent thinking about what my parents were doing. I might be mad at them and appalled at what they wanted me to do, but I still miss them. They’re my mom and dad. Of course I miss them. I miss the house, I miss my room, and I miss the painstaking way my mom decorated everything. She has a very eclectic taste, and she buys what she likes. It doesn’t have to be expensive. There are things in the house that only cost a couple of dollars from antique stores, all the way to pieces of art costing well in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.