Filthy Rich Single Daddies (Filthy Rich Harems #2)

5. Skylar

Chapter 5

Skylar

I stumble into Birdie's sunlit kitchen the next morning, my head pounding and thoughts swirling. One look at my disheveled appearance and Birdie's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

"Sit," she commands, gesturing to a chair. "I'm making tea."

I slump into the seat, grateful for her no-nonsense approach. The familiar clinking of china and the whistle of the kettle fill the air as Birdie busies herself, moving with the kind of grace and efficiency that speaks to years at finishing school. She’s been through her fair share of hardships, but there’s an elegance about her that’s always remained unshaken. Despite all of it, he carries herself with a grounded calm that makes everything seem just a little less overwhelming. Somehow, being in her presence always makes me feel like everything will eventually be okay, no matter how messy things get.

"Rough night, dear?" she asks, her tone light but knowing.

I manage a weak nod, my mind drifting back to Theo. His unexpected appearance, his touch, his...everything. The sex was mind-blowing, just like it always was with him. But now, in the harsh light of day, the heartbreak lingers like a bruise. I never thought I'd see him again, and yet here I am, tangled in emotions I thought I’d buried.

"Earth to Skylar," Birdie sing-songs, waving a hand in front of my face. "Where'd you go just now?"

I blink, focusing on her concerned expression. "Sorry, I'm just...processing."

Birdie sets a steaming mug in front of me, the scent of peppermint wafting up. "Processing what, exactly? Or should I say, who?"

The warmth from the mug radiates through my fingers, a small comfort. I’m grateful for something to anchor me to the here and now. Theo did always have a way of taking up all my thoughts, good and bad. "It's complicated," I mumble.

"Isn't it always?" Birdie chuckles, settling into the chair across from me. Her bright eyes study me over the rim of her own mug, her attention unwavering. She has that way about her—like she sees right through me, without judgment, without rush. She’s patient. I’ve always envied that about her. "Want to talk about it?"

I take a sip of tea, buying time. How do I even begin to explain Theo's sudden reappearance? The way my body sang at his touch, while my heart screamed in protest? I want to tell Birdie everything, but the words feel too heavy.

"I ran into someone from my past," I finally admit. "Someone I never expected to see again."

Birdie leans forward, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "And I'm guessing this someone left quite an impression?"

I can't help but snort at her understatement. "You could say that."

I stare into my tea, watching the steam curl upwards. Memories flood my mind—Theo’s smile, the sound of his laugh, the way his hand fit perfectly in mine. It feels like a lifetime ago. I want to reach for those memories, but they're so tangled up in pain, so wrapped in the heartache of everything that went wrong. "It's Theo," I confess softly. "My ex. The one I thought was...well, the one."

Birdie's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh my. That is quite the blast from the past."

"Yeah," I sigh, tracing the rim of my mug, watching the faint trail of steam rise and dissipate. "I keep thinking about how it all fell apart. Our parents never approved, but..."

"But?" Birdie prompts gently.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat growing. "He stayed away. He chose to obey them. He left me." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "And then, like dominoes, I lost everything else too."

Birdie reaches across the table, her wrinkled hand covering mine. She doesn't say anything at first, just offering silent support. Her touch is warm, grounding. It’s like she knows there’s no need for words. She’s been here before, seen it all, felt the weight of what it’s like to lose someone you thought would always be there.

After a moment, she squeezes my hand. "My dear," she says softly, her voice filled with compassion, "sometimes the universe has a funny way of bringing our past back to us. Not to hurt us, but to heal us."

I look up, meeting her wise gaze. "Or to remind us why we left it behind in the first place," I counter.

Birdie's lips quirk in a half-smile. "Perhaps. But tell me, Skylar, what does your heart say?"

I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. What does my heart say? It's a jumbled mess of longing, anger, and fear. I'm not sure I'm ready to untangle it just yet. I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I do.

Because I made a pact with myself when everything was ripped out from under me. Money only ever brought sorrow. I’d seen it all firsthand—the fake conversations, the empty promises, the hollow hearts that came with that world of privilege. My parents' obsession with appearances, with climbing higher on the social ladder, all for the sake of some illusion of happiness. Theo had been a part of that world, and I’d let myself get swept up in it too.

But after everything fell apart, I swore I’d never go back. I wouldn't let myself fall into the arms of another man with money, no matter how easy it might be. Because in the end, that life had only left me feeling empty, even when it seemed like everything was perfect on the outside.

I take a deep breath, pushing down the tumult of emotions. "It's just my past coming back to haunt me," I say, forcing a wry smile. "But I'll figure it out. I always do."

Birdie nods, her eyes twinkling. "That you do, my dear. You're nothing if not resilient."

I'm grateful when she changes the subject, asking about my latest project. We chat about lighter topics—the unreasonably warm weather, the new bakery in town, Birdie's ongoing feud with her neighbor's yappy dog.

As I'm laughing at one of Birdie's colorful descriptions of said dog, I notice a shadow pass over her face. She sets down her teacup, her hand trembling slightly.

"Skylar," she says, her voice uncharacteristically serious. "There's something I need to tell you."

I lean forward, concern creeping in. "What is it, Birdie?"

She takes a deep breath. "I've been feeling...not quite myself lately. The doctors are running some tests, but..." She trails off, looking more vulnerable than I've ever seen her.

"Oh, Birdie," I breathe, reaching for her hand.

"Now, now, don't go getting all maudlin on me," she says, straightening her shoulders. "It might be nothing. But if it is something, well...I've been thinking about selling the house."

I feel like I've been doused with ice water. "Selling? But why?"

"My sister lives down in Florida," Birdie explains. "If I need...support, it would be good to be closer to family."

My mind reels. The thought of losing Birdie, of losing this place that's become my sanctuary—it's almost too much to bear.

I force a smile, trying to keep my voice steady. "Of course, that makes sense. Family is important."

But inside, I'm crumbling. The familiar ache of loss settles in my chest, a weight I know all too well. It shouldn't surprise me anymore, this constant cycle of abandonment. First Theo, then my mother, and then everything else.

"Are you all right, dear?" Birdie asks, her brow furrowing with concern, her voice tender.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just...thinking."

My mind races, calculating figures. There's no way I can afford to stay in this area if Birdie sells. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—I'm about to lose my home. Again.

"Have you thought about when you might list the property?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds, even though my insides are spinning.

Birdie sighs. "Nothing's set in stone yet. But I wanted you to know, to give you time to...prepare."

I force myself to meet her eyes, pushing down the panic rising in my throat. "I appreciate that, Birdie. Really."

She squeezes my hand. "You know I consider you family, Skylar. This isn't easy for me, either."

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. The irony isn't lost on me—just when I'd started to feel settled, to believe I might have found a place to belong, it's all slipping away.

Later that day, I'm sprawled on the couch in the carriage house, nursing a glass of wine and wallowing in self-pity. The room is dim, the light from the TV flickering over me like a ghost, adding a surreal layer to my discontent. My mind keeps playing over the conversation with Birdie, the night I spent with Theo, everything.

The knock on the door startles me out of my funk. My heart skips a beat. Theo? My stomach flutters uneasily, but there's a tight, churning knot in my gut. I sit up, the wineglass still in hand, my fingers trembling just a little.

I glance down at my ratty tank top and sleep shorts, suddenly feeling like a complete mess. Screw it. If it is Theo, he's seen me in worse. And less. Just last night, even. The thought stirs something deep in me—something I choose to ignore like a healthy, well-adjusted adult.

The memory of last night's passion is a full-body ache, but it's drowned out by the hurt of his abandonment years ago. Every inch of me knows I shouldn't want him here, shouldn't want to feel anything for him. But damn, it’s hard to ignore the pull.

I swing the door open, my breath catching in my throat, but not in the way I expected. Instead of the familiar, heart-wrenching green eyes and tousled brown curls I had braced myself for, I find myself staring at a broad chest in an impeccably tailored suit.

My gaze travels up—slowly, involuntarily—until I meet icy blue eyes that flash with heat before quickly cooling. It's a look I’m coming to know all too well.

Austin Rhodes.

"Skylar," he says, his voice clipped, professional.

I blink, suddenly very aware of my state of undress, my cheeks flushing. "Austin? What are you doing here?"

His jaw tightens as his gaze sweeps over me, lingering a moment too long on my bare legs before snapping back to my face. "May I come in?"

I hesitate, acutely aware of the mess behind me—the half-empty wine glass on the coffee table, the mismatched couch pillows, the clutter scattered around like I’ve given up on life for a while now. And my appearance...let's not even go there.

“Um, sure. Just...give me a second.”

As I turn to grab a sweatshirt, I catch a glimpse of his face. Is that a smirk? Great.

I tug on an oversized sweatshirt, grateful for the extra coverage, and brush my hair back from my face with a hasty hand. It’s not like I’m trying to impress him—hell, I don't even care what he thinks, but a little dignity wouldn’t hurt. “Okay, come in,” I say, stepping aside.

Austin enters, his presence immediately filling the small space, his polished shoes clicking on the hardwood floor with an unnatural precision. He looks around, taking in the modest furnishings, the pile of books on my coffee table, the dusty window with half-drawn curtains. I resist the urge to straighten up.

"Nice place," he says, though his tone suggests otherwise. It’s not insulting, just...clinical. Detached. It’s the way he seems to talk about everything—like he’s dissecting it, trying to make sense of it.

I cross my arms, a knee-jerk defense mechanism. "Thanks. I'm sure it's a far cry from your mansion, but it suits me just fine."

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. "I have a proposition for you."

My eyebrows shoot up. "A proposition? Should I be flattered or worried?"

A flicker of something—amusement?—crosses his face before disappearing. "It's a job offer, actually. I need a temporary nanny for my son. And for my niece."

I blink, caught off guard. "A nanny? Me?"

"Yes, you," he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. "It would be for a few weeks, a live-in position, with a generous salary."

My mind races, trying to process what he’s saying. A nanny? For his kid? The idea is absurd, but...the promise of financial stability is tempting. Especially after Birdie's news...and the bills that seem to keep multiplying in my inbox.

"I don't know, Austin," I hedge. "I'm not exactly Mary Poppins material."

He shrugs. "You don't need to be. You just need to be responsible and keep him safe. You’re an elementary school teacher, so presumably you can manage such a feat."

I chew my lip, considering. The money would solve a lot of problems, but living in Austin's house? Being around him every day? It sounds like a recipe for disaster. But then I think about my dwindling bank account and the uncertain future looming ahead.

I take a deep breath. "Okay. I'll do it. But I’ll be living here for now."

Austin nods, looking oddly relieved. His gaze sweeps over me, his eyes lingering a moment too long on my chest. I resist the urge to cross my arms.

"Get dressed," he says, his voice clipped, almost impatient. "We're heading to the house. You need to meet Cohen, my brother. He's Elodie's father."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and arch an eyebrow. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now," he replies, his tone brooking no argument. “Is that a problem, trouble?”

As he strides out, I roll my eyes at his back. Who died and made him king?

I trudge to my bedroom, muttering under my breath. "Sure, Your Highness. Whatever you say."

Rummaging through my closet, I grab the first decent top I see and a pair of jean shorts. It's not interview attire, but hey, I've already got the job, right?

I shake off the nagging feeling plaguing me—something that feels too much like a warning—and slip on a bra, followed by the top. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and consider my messy bun. For a split second, I debate fixing it, but then I shrug.

"Screw it," I mutter, leaving my hair as is. "If they wanted polished, they shouldn't have sprung this on me."

I head for the door and step outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. Austin's leaning against his sleek black car, arms crossed, looking like he just stepped out of a CEO magazine. Do those exist? They must. His eyes rake over me, lingering on my messy bun and bare legs. I catch a flicker of...something in his gaze before his expression hardens.

He huffs, a short, irritated sound. "That's what you're wearing?"

I plant my hands on my hips. "You said get dressed. I'm dressed."

Austin pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "impossible woman." But he doesn't push it further, just jerks his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."

The drive to his place is silent and tense. It is difficult, but I resist the urge to ask why he didn’t just walk across the yard. It would have been much quicker. And it would feel a lot less like I was suffocating in his aura.

I fidget with the hem of my shorts, sneaking glances at Austin's profile. His jaw is clenched tight, hands gripping the steering wheel like he's imagining it's my neck.

We pull up to a sprawling mansion that makes my eyes bulge. “Holy shit,” I whisper, almost too low for him to hear. I’ve never actually seen this place from the front. It’s situated well back from the road, blocked by an ornate gate and a lined drive. It’s…well, it puts Birdie’s place to shame.

"Language," Austin snaps, but there's no real heat behind it. He’s trying to maintain control, but I’m starting to see the cracks.

As we walk to the front door, my nerves kick into overdrive. What if Cohen doesn't like me? What if—

The door swings open, and my brain short-circuits.

Standing there, all tousled hair and stormy blue eyes, is a face I know all too well. A face I last saw in a haze of tequila and neon lights in Vegas.

"Hey, you must be Skylar," he says with an easy smile, no hint of recognition in his eyes. "I'm Cohen. Come on in, we've got a lot to talk about."

And, right beside him is the man who was inside me last night. Theodore Bronson Shepherd III.

My mouth goes dry. What the fuck?