Chapter 3
Avery
I swear, if I could turn back time, I'd ask before signing that contract. Did this job include getting fucked by the boss in a chopper?
Because right now, I stood on this goddamn helipad with legs still shaking, panties soaked through, and the culprit—Patrick Winchester—stepped out of the helicopter like nothing happened, adjusting his cufflinks all smooth and elegant.
Asshole.
"Watch the step." He extended his hand, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You look a little... unsteady."
I glared at him hard, ignored his hand, and jumped down myself. My legs buckled. I almost ate dirt.
He caught my waist just in time.
"I said watch it," he murmured in my ear, voice low and sexy with that same rasp from when he was inside me in the cabin, "your legs are still trembling, paprika."
My face exploded red.
"Shut up," I shoved out of his arms, deliberately pushing him hard, "that's because... because I get airsick! Yeah, airsick!"
"Of course," his smirk deepened, "airsick. Then next time I should be gentler, avoid making you so... dizzy."
I wanted to punch his stupid, handsome face.
But I didn't, because—
"Daddy! Daddy's home!"
A tiny golden blur rocketed out from the villa entrance, launching straight at Patrick as he stepped off the helicopter.
I froze.
It was a little boy, maybe five years old, golden curls shining in the sunlight, round face covered in freckles, wearing a blue dinosaur T-shirt and shorts. He crashed into Patrick's arms, small hands clutching his neck tight.
"Hey, little man," Patrick's voice went suddenly soft, completely different from his usual dangerous rumble. He lifted the boy up, big hand supporting his bottom. "Miss me?"
"Yes! Super ultra miss you!" The little boy wriggled in his arms, then suddenly noticed me.
Those big blue eyes—the exact same blue as Patrick's—stared at me with pure childlike curiosity.
"Daddy, who's she?" he asked with that unfiltered directness kids have. "Is she a new nanny you hired? Where'd the last one go? She didn't finish teaching me how to make paper airplanes."
My heart clenched hard.
This was Ethan. Patrick's son. The five-year-old boy mentioned in the contract.
God, he was adorable. So adorable I could cry.
"No," Patrick said, setting Ethan down but keeping a hand on his shoulder, "this is Avery. She..." he paused, those blue eyes finding mine with something I couldn't read, "she'll be staying here for a while."
Ethan tilted his head like a curious puppy. "Are you Daddy's friend?"
"Something like that," I said, then crouched down to his eye level. Up close, this kid was a mini Patrick—same delicate features, same blue eyes, just with more innocence and softness.
My heart clenched again.
Damn it, Avery. Don't get attached to this kid. You're just working here. You'll be gone in a month.
But...
"Hi, Ethan," I said, forcing my smile to look natural, "I'm Avery. Nice to meet you."
He blinked, then looked at Patrick like seeking permission.
"It's okay," Patrick said, "she's friendly."
"Oh," Ethan turned back to me, then suddenly grinned, showing several missing baby teeth, "your hair's really messy."
I almost laughed out loud. "Is it? That's probably from riding in the helicopter. The wind was strong."
"Really?" His eyes lit up. "Is the helicopter fun? I wanna ride! Daddy never lets me."
"Because you're too young," Patrick said, but his tone was gentle.
"I'm not young!" Ethan protested, "I'm five already! I'm a big boy!"
I couldn't help but smile. This little guy was too cute.
I fished a chocolate from my pocket—grabbed from the convenience store this morning, meant to eat myself. I held it up, waving it in front of Ethan's eyes.
"Tell you what, little man," I said, "if you tell me your full name, this chocolate's yours."
Ethan's eyes locked on that chocolate, practically glowing. "Really?"
"Really."
He hesitated, looking at me, then at Patrick. Then whispered, "Ethan Winchester."
"That's a great name," I said, handing him the chocolate, "here you go, brave Ethan."
He took the chocolate, little hands gripping it tight like I might take it back. Then he looked up at me with a huge gap-toothed grin.
"Thank you, Avery!"
My heart clenched again.
Damn. I was screwed.
"Alright," Patrick said, ruffling Ethan's hair with his big hand, "go have Mary get you lunch. Avery and I need to talk."
"Okay!" Ethan bounced back toward the villa, turning to wave at me halfway.
I waved back, then stood up.
"Didn't think a stiff like you could have such a lively kid."
"I didn't either." Patrick watched me with something I couldn't quite name in his eyes.
"What?" I asked, eyeing him warily.
"Nothing," he said, but that smirk was still there, "just... you're good with kids."
"I like kids," I shrugged, "they're way more honest than adults."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah," I said, then realized we stood a bit too close. I stepped back, "so... you should tell me what's next."
"Sounds like Mrs. Winchester's eager to get into character?" Patrick raised an eyebrow, gaze teasing.
I rolled my eyes.
Yeah, I already knew—the guy's so full of his own bullshit that even licking his own lips would poison him.
"The film crew won't be here for two days," he finally dropped that smug act, "so we have two days to get you familiar with everything here—the estate, Ethan, and your husband. Me."
Patrick suddenly leaned down, his shadow engulfing me, that familiar woody scent that made my legs weak, instantly transporting me back to what just happened on the plane.
"Husband," I repeated the word, trying to hide my discomfort, "God, that sounds wild."
"That's your job," he reminded me, "use your acting to convince everyone in front of the camera that we're in love. Even yourself. You can do that, right?"
"I know, of course I will," I said, but inside I screamed.
"Then don't worry," he said, voice low, "though I've heard actors can get lost in their own performances. Don't fall in love with me, Avery."
"Dream on," I muttered, "watch yourself."
He laughed, then gestured for me to follow him into the villa. "Come on, Mrs. Winchester. Let me show you around your new home."
I rolled my eyes but followed anyway.
The villa was bigger than I imagined.
No, "big" didn't cut it. This was practically an estate.
Three floors, white walls, massive floor-to-ceiling windows, gardens, pool, tennis court... and a goddamn private beach.
"You bought this place for vacations?" I couldn't help asking, following Patrick through marble hallways. Ethan's already been taken away by the nanny Mary for snacks.
"Yes," he said, as casually as saying "I bought a sandwich today," "I like quiet."
"...Fuck, goddamn rich people." I quickly shut up, offering a professional fake smile instead.
He turned his head, corner of his mouth lifting. "What was that?"
"Nothing," I quickly closed my mouth.
He led me upstairs and pushed open a door. "This is your room."
I walked in, then sucked in a breath.
The room was huge, at least three times the size of my rental apartment. Massive four-poster bed, plush carpet, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking endless ocean. Plus a walk-in closet and private bathroom.
"The closet has everything you need," Patrick said, leaning against the doorframe, "from lingerie to evening gowns. If anything doesn't fit, tell the butler, he'll arrange for new ones."
I opened the closet, then froze.
It was packed with clothes—dresses, tops, pants, coats... and a whole row of shoes. Every piece was my size.
I couldn't help gasping, turning around. "Jesus, did you rob a clothing store? I'd have to change outfits daily just to wear them all within a year!"
"This is nothing," he raised an eyebrow, "you're Mrs. Winchester now. You need to look like Mrs. Winchester. This is how rich people's closets look. So from now on, you need to adapt to this identity."
I groaned. "Seriously, I'm developing class resentment."
His lips curled into a wicked smile. "You weren't saying that when you came on my chopper."
Fuck!
Did he always talk like this?
I glared at him, face burning. "Shut up."
"Alright." He shrugged. "Settle in and get familiar with the place."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door like remembering something, "Oh, three PM is Ethan's beach time. He's been looking forward to it. A good mom wouldn't miss it, would she, Miss Righteousness? You wouldn't disappoint a five-year-old boy, right?"
The door closed.
I stared at the shut door for a long moment, then covered my face with a groan.
God, I had a feeling the next few days were going to be rough.
The three PM sun baked the beach like a warm blanket, fine sand swallowing my ankles, tickling. I tried to pull my buried feet out when Patrick appeared.
He changed clothes—white linen shirt with sleeves casually rolled up, khakis, total "I look hot in anything" vibes. Actually looked like a magazine model, if that magazine was called How to Gracefully Pissing People Off.
"Clothes fit okay?" His gaze swept over me, landing on the beige maxi dress he provided. The fabric breathed soft as air, though on my "fuller-figured" frame, the effect was probably somewhere between "lazy vacation" and "glutinous rice dumpling come to life."
"Thanks to you," I tugged at the hem, "very 'realistic' sizing."
His lips quirked up in that "knew you'd say that" smile. "Realistic is good. The next few days, your job is to get Ethan naturally calling you 'Mom.' Cameras will be everywhere, and real family interaction—" he paused, meeting my eyes, "has no script. Only reactions."
I crossed my arms. "Got it. Want me to go from 'playing mom' to 'being mom.'"
"Bingo." He snapped his fingers, smile deepening. "Shouldn't be hard for a pro like you, right? After all, your specialty is... making people can't tell what's real and what's performance."