Fifteen: Harlow

FIFTEEN

HARLOW

T he SS Raya sailed across the sea so smoothly that I could barely feel the waves.

Calling it a “yacht” was like calling a McLaren a car. It was a floating hotel with endless amenities for all its guests: Two theater rooms, a business wing, a full-service kitchen, a spa, a hair salon, and lavish guest rooms.

Despite the stunning ocean views, I still felt like I was in Manhattan.

William and Charlotte weren’t the slightest bit calmed by the waters, and their oh-so-generous father was too busy with his team to give me more than an hour’s break at a time.

Tonight was our second night aboard, and he was hosting an ‘all-white’ party on the top deck; Me and the children weren’t invited.

Annoyed and armed with my favorite apron, I strolled past the parlor rooms in search of the kitchen.

I hit the lights and gasped.

“Wow…”

With its sleek white and gleaming state-of-the-art ovens and perfectly organized tools in glass cabinets, this was every chef’s dream.

Walking to the fridge, I saw everything I needed for tiramisu, cupcakes, and turnovers.

I carried them over to the prep station and turned on a range.

“What are you doing, Miss Hawthorne?” Olivia stepped in front of me.

“I’m cooking some dessert. Alone .”

“But you’re not a chef.”

“Okay.” I rolled up my sleeves, refusing to let her bother me.

“You’re supposed to be watching the twins.”’

“I am.” I held up my phone, showing her the nursery camera. “They’re sleeping until bath time.”

She plopped down on a stool, eyeing me.

I don’t care.

I focused on the ingredients ahead of me, briefly shutting my eyes and pretending like I was in my dream bakery.

Before I knew it, I was making enough sweets for fifty people, and I didn’t utter a word when Olivia carried two plates away.

While I glazed the final batch of turnovers, a grey-haired woman stared at me from the doorway.

“Let me guess.” I tried not to sigh. “Mr. Dawson sent you down here to kick me out.”

“Not exactly.”

“He’s such an ass.” I slammed a cabinet shut. “What type of boss thinks someone wants to mix a vacation setting with work?”

She arched a brow.

“He takes out all his terrible work decisions on me, like I advised him to buy the worst team in the NBA.”

“They are pretty terrible…”

“He comes home late, barely speaks to me, and then has the audacity to think he’s the father of the year,” I said. “I think he’s overcompensating since he can no longer live the ultimate ‘bad boy’ bachelor life. Hell, I’m shocked women still flock to him like flies, despite knowing he’s a dad; he’s probably terrible in bed, too.”

“I take it you’re his nanny?” She smiled.

“Unfortunately.” I sighed. “What do you do for him?”

“I’m Mama Raya.” She smiled. “His mothe r.”

Holy shit … “I am so sorry, ma’am.” My cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean a word of what I said.”

“Yes, you did.” She laughed, strolling over to me. “Good to see I made the right decision to tell him hell no.”

“Your son is an amazing and brilliant businessman.” I tried to save face. “He’s a huge inspiration and a great example of what happens when you work hard and believe in yourself.”

“He is also probably very good in bed…”

“ Stop it .” She was still laughing. “My son has had an unnerving sense of focus since the day I adopted him. I thought he would grow out of it, but he only became more intense as the years passed. Hell, when he was a basketball player, half of his teammates feared him.”

I bit my tongue.

I’d said enough words for the day.

“You look like you need a break, Nanny,” she said. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“I doubt Mr. Dawson will be okay with that.”

“I’ll deal with him.” She picked up one of my pastries, and I suspected this could be a trap.

He’s testing me somehow.

“I haven’t read Daddy Loves Me or The Little Blue Engine That Could to the twins yet,” I told her. “They like how I sound out pages. Oh, and I’ve started singing the ‘One Little Monkey Falls off the Bed’ song, and it’s as fun for me as it is for them.”

“Cut the shit, Nanny.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Get out of here and find your way to the spa. I’ve got the kids from here.”

“Olivia, too?”

“Yes. Go away.”

Without hesitation, I untied my apron and rushed to my suite.

I changed into my pink bikini and searched for the spa.

* * *

“ Ahhhh ….” I lay back in the water and shut my eyes, inhaling eucalyptus-scented steam.

The jets under my legs hummed, blowing streams against my thighs.

I can’t believe I was about to turn down his mom’s offer and miss out on this.

The jets’ pressure softened, and I climbed out of the tub.

With rubber legs, I strolled toward a tray of chilled wine and poured a glass.

I downed it in one gulp and poured another.

Then another.

“ It’s been so long …” I moaned. “So damn long.”

I carried my last one across the room, following the arrows toward the steam room.

I was halfway there when Mr. Dawson stepped out of the shower, stark naked.

Too stunned to move, I watched him splash his face with water.

The muscles in his back flexed, and as he turned around, my jaw unhinged and dropped to the floor.

Every muscle from his chest to his abs was carved to perfection. As I lowered my gaze past his stomach, I held in a breath at the sight of his cock.

Rock-hard and jutting forward like it was ready for me to ride it, it was also etching its place in my fantasies for years to come.

He’s so fucking massive…

My mouth watered as I envisioned him owning my body in his bed.

Snap out of it, Harlow snap out of it.

Clutching my wine glass, I stole one last look at him and stepped backward.

When I reached the doorway, I turned around—well, I tried to.

My head refused to follow my feet’s lead. My hair was stuck on something.

What the hell?

I reached up to pull it free, yanking my head forward, but it didn’t give.

Shit.

I stopped resisting and remained still, hoping Mr. Dawson would walk away without noticing me.

He rolled his head from the left to the right, softly groaning as he stretched.

His eyes met mine in the mirror, and he smiled.

“Hello, Miss Hawthorne.” He turned around, giving me a much better view of his body. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah, well—” My cheeks burned. “Feel free to keep that same energy and act like I’m not here. Treat me like I’m part of the decor.”

Amused, he let out a low laugh and strolled toward me.

“Are you drinking on the job?” he asked, looking at my glass. “Better yet, tell me, what type of wine is it?”

This man isn’t going to put on a towel?

“It’s a merlot,” I said. “1986.”

“That’s a good year.” He grabbed the glass from my hand and sipped slowly. “Very good year…”

“I agree.” I said, ignoring the fact that his cock was brushing against my thigh. “I thought you were hosting a party tonight.”

“I was. I left early.”

“Can you please put a towel on?”

“Why?” He smirked. “Don’t you like what you see?”

“There’s a stack of towels right there by your foot.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“Your children are with your mother.” I tried to navigate our conversation to someplace safe. “She said she’d mention it to you.”

“Answer my question, Harlow Hawthorne .” The way he said my name sent a rush of warmth through my body. “Do you like what you see?”

“I see towels .”

Smiling, he bent down and grabbed one. He didn’t wrap it around his waist, though.

Instead, he wrapped it around my hips like I was the stark-naked one.

“It looks like your hair is caught on my favorite sconce,” he said. “Would you like me to help you get off?”

“Get it off?” I said. “As in, my hair away from the sconce?”

“You heard me.”

“I would like you to put on a damn towel.”

His dimples deepened as he fluffed the towel a few times and slipped it behind his back. He eyed me as he brought the ends together as slowly as possible.

“Thank you,” I said. “And yes, I would appreciate your help. I’m hoping to use your salon to get a deluxe makeover before the end of the night.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned closer and threaded his fingers through my hair.

He was wearing a different cologne today, with a scent even more intoxicating than usual.

Sliding his hand behind my neck, he pulled strands of my hair away from the sconce. His lips moved closer with every release.

Kiss me. Please fucking kiss me…

“Mr. Dawson?” someone called from the hallway. “Mr. Dawson, are you still in there?”

Focusing on me, he freed the last strand and ran his fingers through my hair one more time.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“By the way,” he said. “You don’t need a makeover and you don’t need makeup. That’s a waste of your time.”

“Is that your way of giving me a compliment?”

“I’m stating facts.” He reached out to touch me again, leaning close as if he were going to kiss me.

“There you are, sir!” The voice neared, forcing him to step away from me. “Hurry up and get dressed for the final toast! Everyone is waiting for you to cut the cake!”

Sighing, he slowly looked me up and down before leaving the spa.