Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
For a moment, I think she’s talking about the senior du Beaumont and find myself nibbling the edge of my thumbnail. Great, I think flatly, staring at the newly jagged edge.
Good thing I’m excellent at controlling my impulses.
The truth of the matter is, no matter how short my stay, there is very little chance of seeing eye to eye with the senior Monsieur du Beaumont over anything. He’s just lucky he still his balls after threatening to fire Em because I am pretty good with a scalpel.
Not really. General surgery wasn’t for me.
But I expect I could castrate him.
With the right motivation.
What kind of idiot puts two and two together and comes up with… oranges? He knows Emmy—he’s trusted her with his kids. To assume she’d do anything underhanded, anything illegal, is just plain bonkers.
“I’m going to send you a quick text with a couple of things that might help. Bedtime routines and stuff. Is that okay?”
“’Course.” My phone pings almost immediately.
“I know your French is pretty decent, but he’ll prefer you to stick to English with the kids. He usually speaks French with them, though his English is excellent.”
“I noticed.” I try to keep the bite from my tone.
“He’s half English himself, you know.”
“Why doesn’t he speak to them in English, then?” Surely, a French nanny would be easier to come by.
“He does, but not when they’re alone. I get the impression he’s trying to keep a little of their mother alive.”
“Oh.” That’s sad.
“There’s a folder in the top drawer of my dresser. It was given to me on my first day on the job. It might help.”
“The dos and don’ts?” Hard pass to reading that.
“And keep your phone charged, yeah?”
“And my phone isn’t always flat,” I complain.
She makes a noise of disbelief. “Thinking about it, the folder is more about their schedules. It probably won’t be useful given the kids aren’t at school. But, you know, for the kids of a billionaire, they’re pretty normal. I mean, Felix can be a handful, but he’s not spoiled.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Because he totally seemed like a spoiled brat to me.
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that money doesn’t solve all problems. And I’d guess there’s some generational trauma along with all that generational wealth.”
“Suffering is part of the human experience,” I retort with a fake brightness.
“Well, that family has suffered. He lost his wife, and those poor kiddies no longer have a mum.”
“Poor children,” I murmur, slightly chastened.
“I think that’s why Mr. du Beaumont is the way he is. He—”
“Em, don’t make any more excuses for him!” I keep my tone light, but I’m not interested in hearing any tragic tales. I don’t want to feel sympathy for him. I can’t be expected to be nice to the man. “And he can be as grumpy as he wants because I am an expert at dealing with the male ego.”
“Since when?”
“I have four brothers,” I retort.
“Yeah, and you totally pander to their egos,” she deadpans.
“And I regularly get talked down by mansplaining patients who think their age trumps my experience. And I’m pretty sure that, when a doctor reaches the lofty heights of consultant, arsehole behavior gets added to their DNA. Which means I deal daily with people who have much bigger god complexes than your boss.”
Never while wearing just a bikini, though.
10
LUC
Five minutes late, Doctor Primrose Elizabeth Whittington steps onto the terrace, almost stumbling as she registers my presence.
“I thought… I thought I was eating with the children.”
“Sit down.” I give no confirmation nor correction. No please. No thanks. Just a whole lot of poker face.
She straightens her shirt, quickly regaining her equilibrium. Pulling out the heavy chair at the far end of the table, she sits, though not without some attitude. Sunlight and shadow dapple her golden hair thanks to grapevines twining the arbor overhead. She looks… different. No sinfully red bikini. No siren red lipstick. No short dress. No heels.
Instead, her hair is pulled into an untidy bun. I find myself wondering if she’s ever able to tame those locks. She’s dressed like the quintessential girl next door; pale jeans, a striped blue shirt, and navy espadrilles. Fresh-faced and innocent, she also looks young—far too young.
And strikingly lovely.
She adjusts herself in her chair, and I watch her take in the table, which is perhaps a little too well-dressed for a casual alfresco dinner. A snowy-white tablecloth, silverware, wine glasses, a small but elegant flower arrangement in the center. Then I notice she’s looking anywhere but at me, which could be related to her parting words.
Haven’t had sex in a year.
I’m not often caught off guard, though I’ll admit, that took me by surprise. What I won’t admit, even to myself, is the places my mind went with that information.
I’ve had a chance to reconsider my position since we last spoke, and the opportunity to examine her background check, and to think over the things she said. Some of them, at least.