Chapter 5
A GENTLEMAN’S GUIDE TO AVOIDING YOUR NANNY
ROARKE
The next morning dawns clear and perfect over Monaco's harbor.
And I’m determined to forget yesterday's flour explosion, and more importantly, the way Mia Rossi felt pressed against me in that doorway.
Focus. Control.
Business launch in three weeks.
These are the mantras I repeat while reviewing charter booking requests in my office, trying to ignore the sounds of Isla and Mia practicing what appears to be a tap-dancing routine on the deck above my head.
"Claire," I call through the intercom, "please schedule meetings with the Santorini property manager and the Barcelona marina director for this afternoon. I want to finalize port arrangements before we—"
My phone rings, the caller ID making me consider throwing it overboard.
But I answer it. Because when your 92-year-old grandmother calls, you pick up.
Or God help your soul.
"Bonjour, mon petit-fils!" Grand-mère Ada West’s voice fills the office with the force of a small hurricane.
“Hello, mémé. How are you?”
“Amazing…now that I’m talking to you.” She pauses, practically humming. “So, I hear you have finally hired a proper nanny for ma petite Isla!"
“Mémé, I'm in the middle of—"
"Non, non, you listen to your grand-mère. Mrs. Dubois at the marina tells me this new girl is very pretty. Very spirited. She made poor Mr. Harrison slip on his own yacht trying to get a better look."
I massage my temples. "The nanny is adequate for Isla's needs."
"Adequate? Bah! A woman should never be adequate, Roarke. She should be magnificent. Is she magnificent?"
She’s more than magnificent, I’m tempted to admit.
She’s bubbly. And unpretentious. Genuine.
And, frankly…beautiful.
But now’s not the time or place.
I’ve done the relationship thing a few times in my twenties—once or twice in my thirties—and nothing was ever enough of a fit to hold onto for very long.
In my forty-five years on Earth, I’ve discovered not many women are crazy about being with a man already married to his career.
Not that I’m thinking of marriage…
I sigh, thinking of a way to answer my nosy grandmother when the tap-dancing on the deck above intensifies. It’s accompanied by Captain Feathers' enthusiastic squawking of a cawed version of "Singin' in the Rain."
"She's... thorough," I manage.
"Ah! She makes you think, this one. Good. You need someone to shake up your careful little world. When do I meet her?"
"You don't. We're sailing to Cannes for the soft launch tomorrow afternoon, and—"
"Perfect! I am at my Cannes villa for the weekend. We have lunch."
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone. As usual.
But the second I try to get back to work, the universe throws another curve ball at me.
Because two hours later, I'm trailing behind Mia and Isla through Monaco's crowded market, as we search for another pair of tapping shoes because apparently Captain Feathers took a painted poo inside of the pair we already have.
I’d congratulate the bird, if it didn’t mean I was wrangled into this shopping excursion, too.
"Uncle Roarke, look!" Isla holds up a stuffed octopus wearing a beret. "Captain Feathers needs a friend!"
"Captain Feathers has enough friends," I answer, scanning the crowd automatically.
So many people. So many variables.
So many things that could go wrong.
“Izzy, honey,” I rub her wispy soft, blonde hair, “let’s focus. We’re looking for tapping shoes. Not new friends.”
"But this one speaks French!" Isla demonstrates by making the octopus wave a tentacle. "Bonjour! Je suis un poulpe!"
Mia laughs, and the sound does something unfortunate to my concentration. "That's very impressive, sweetheart. But maybe we should—"
"Ice cream!" Isla spots a gelato cart and bolts toward it like a tiny missile.
"Isla, wait!" Mia calls, but she's already disappeared into the crowd.
A second passes, then several, before I realize I can’t see her golden curls anymore.
My blood turns to ice. "Where is she?"
"She just went to the gelato cart, she's probably—" Mia spins in a circle, her face going pale. "Isla? ISLA!"
The market suddenly feels like a maze of threats.
Too many people. Too many places for a seven-year-old to disappear.
Too many ways to lose what little family I have left.
"She was right here," I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. "She was right fucking here."
"We'll find her," Mia says firmly, but I can hear the tremor in her voice. "You take the marina, I'll check the shops."
Thirty minutes of searching feels like thirty hours.
Every blonde head in the crowd makes my heart stop, every child's voice that isn't Isla's makes my chest tighten.
I'm calling her name and trying not to think about sailing accidents and how quickly everything can disappear when you're not watching carefully enough.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mia.
Check Club Nautique. Doorman says a little girl charmed her way past security.
I run.
I find them in the club's main lounge—Isla perched on a leather armchair like a tiny queen, regaling what appears to be half of Monaco's billionaire population with stories about Captain Feathers' artistic career.
"And then he painted the WHOLE salon!" she's explaining to a fascinated audience that includes my newest friend Connor Reeves and his wife Ariana. "Mia says it's called abstract expressionism!"
"Isla," I breathe, crossing the room in three strides and pulling her into my arms.
"Uncle Roarke! I was telling everyone about our adventures!"
"You can't just wander off like that," I say into her hair, my hands shaking slightly. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to see the big boats, and the nice man said I could wait here for you."
Behind me, I hear Mia talking to Connor and Ariana, her voice bright and professional despite the panic I know she just experienced.
But when I finally release Isla and turn around, I see the telltale signs of stress around her eyes.
"Everything alright?" Connor asks, approaching with Ariana.
"Fine," I manage. "Just a temporary misplacement of cargo."
"Cargo?" Isla pouts. "I'm not cargo!"
"Very valuable cargo," Mia amends, but her smile is strained.
Twenty minutes later, we're back on the yacht.
Isla is happily settled in her cabin with Captain Feathers and a new coloring book, completely unaware of the terror she just put us through.
I find Mia—dark-haired and still—sitting on the stern deck, staring out at the harbor with her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that's gone cold.
"She's fine," I say, settling beside her.
"I know." But her voice breaks slightly. "I just... for a minute there, I thought I'd lost her. That I'd failed her the way I..." She stops, shaking her head.
"The way you what?"
"Nothing. It's nothing."
But something about her tone, the way she's holding herself so carefully frozen, makes me look closer. "Mia."
"I'm supposed to keep her safe," she whispers. "That's my one job, and I let her slip away in a crowd like some amateur tourist babysitter."
The self-recrimination in her voice hits me squarely in the chest.
"Hey," I say softly, reaching for her hand. "She's safe. She's happy. And she thinks you hung the moon."
She looks up at me then, almond brown eyes bright with unshed tears, and the shift is instant—like the air between us changes weight.
My chest feels too tight, my grip on control too thin.
Her face is inches from mine, and every detail imprints into my brain.
Her tanned skin. The damp fringe of her dark lashes.
The tiny tremor in her pink bottom lip she’s trying to hide.
My hand moves before I can stop it, cupping her jaw, the soft give of her skin under my calloused palm.
“Mia,” I say quietly.
Not a warning. Not a question.
Just her name, the way it tastes when I’m not holding it back.
Her breath catches. “Roarke…”
And I’m done.
I close the distance, pressing my mouth to hers. It’s not careful. Careful isn’t possible with her.
It’s heat and relief and everything I didn’t let myself feel thirty minutes ago when I thought we’d lost Isla.
Her lips are soft and taste faintly of tea and salt air, and when she exhales into the kiss, I swear I feel it all the way to my spine.
She fists her hands in the front of my shirt, and I slide my thumb along the curve of her cheek, my other hand finding the small of her back and urging her forward until she’s flush against me.
She makes a sound—low, involuntary—that I feel in my gut, and my control nearly snaps.
My lips angle over hers, deepening the kiss until there’s no space between us, until the heat spirals low and fast.
And just like that, the logical voice in my head is gone.
There’s only this.
Mia’s scent—warm and clean. Sun-soaked, dark hair brushing my jaw.
The subtle shiver that runs through her when my thumb strokes just below her ear.
Her knees press lightly into mine as if she’s unconsciously seeking even more contact, and I want to give it to her—every inch of me.
I want to anchor her here so she never pulls away.
The shrill ring of my phone slices through the moment like a blade.
We break apart, breathing hard, eyes locked in the charged space between us.
Her lips are kiss-swollen, her hair slightly mussed from my fingers, and she looks… undone.
Which is dangerous…
Because I feel exactly the same.
“You might wanna…”
“Right.” My own voice is rough, unsteady. I fumble the phone to my ear, walking away before I answer. “West.”
“Roarke, darling!” Grand-mère’s voice is smug enough to see without a video call. “I have made reservations for lunch tomorrow in Cannes. You, me, and this magnificent nanny who has finally made you act like a man instead of a hard-drive!”
I close my eyes, determined not to think of how “hard” my drive is, my thumb still tingling from where it touched Mia’s skin.
After hanging up with Mémé, the kiss lingers in the evening air. Still hovering over me.
Unfinished.
Dangerous.
And impossible to ignore.