Taming Mr. Cold

Chapter seven: Tiny Human, big feelings

Wren

There are exactly three things I’ve always known about myself;

I am not maternal.

I once burnt instant noodles.

Children intimidate me more than rich men in suits.

So naturally, my first full day as a nanny for a selectively mute four-year-old with a six-foot-four grumpy billionaire dad who could double as a Greek statue was going great.

Fantastic, even.

I stood in the hallway outside Liam’s door, holding my breath like I was about to walk into a crime scene. The kid had been so quiet that if I hadn’t peeked inside and seen him sitting on the floor with his sketchpad, I might’ve called the FBI.

Okay, maybe not the FBI, but definitely child services. Or Damon. Which was kind of the same thing.

I knocked gently.

No response.

“Hey, Liam,” I said, voice soft, careful. “Can I come in?”

Still no words. But he looked up. Not scared. Not annoyed. Just... watchful.

That’s when I realized, I wasn’t being ignored. I was being assessed.

Like a mini billionaire in training. Sharp eyes, full judgment, silent evaluation. Damon 2.0 just smaller and with better hair.

I stepped in cautiously and sat across from him on the rug. “Whatcha drawing?”

He tilted the sketchpad toward me, and my heart did a little flip.

It was a dinosaur. Wearing sunglasses. On a skateboard.

I gasped dramatically. “Is that a velociraptor doing an ollie?”

He grinned.

Not a smile. A full, dimpled grin. And just like that, the invisible weight pressing down on my chest loosened.

This wasn’t just some kid. This was Liam. And Liam, apparently, had excellent taste in dinosaurs.

For the next hour, we sat together on the floor, drawing ridiculous animals doing ridiculous things. A T-Rex baking cookies. A triceratops on a trampoline. At one point, he nudged a crayon toward me with a look that clearly said, your turn. So I drew a giraffe in a tutu.

He laughed.

Not loudly. More like a sharp puff of air from his nose but it counted. It so counted.

Take that, Damon Vale. Your son likes me.

Okay, maybe that was petty. But still.

I was riding the high of making Liam smile until the door creaked open and in walked the tall, intimidating reminder that I had a boss. One who could very well fire me before lunch if I gave his son the wrong snack.

Damon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching us with an unreadable expression.

I pretended not to notice him. Which was hard, because my skin definitely noticed him. Like, in a goosebumps for no reason kind of way.

“Making progress?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

“Depends. Do crayon-eating dinosaurs count as developmental milestones?”

Liam giggled again. Damon’s eyes flickered to him, and that unreadable expression cracked for a second. Softened. Melted, even.

Okay, that was kind of hot. But I looked away. Because professionalism.

“I was just about to take him down for a snack,” I said, brushing invisible lint off my very uncool, very wrinkled t-shirt. “Unless that’s against some fancy billionaire protocol?”

“No crumbs on the Persian rugs,” he said, but it was almost almost a joke.

I stood up and held out my hand. Liam took it without hesitation. That tiny gesture shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did, but I felt it everywhere.

Downstairs, I sliced bananas and laid out some mini pancakes while Liam sat at the counter, legs swinging and silently judging my banana-to-pancake ratio.

“Your dad said you like these,” I said, placing the plate in front of him. “So if I’m wrong, blame him.”

Behind me, Damon’s voice cut in. “Don’t throw me under the bus to my own kid.”

I turned to find him leaning on the fridge now, sipping his black coffee like he wasn’t lowkey eavesdropping the whole time.

I raised an eyebrow. “You following me or just making sure I don’t poison your heir?”

His mouth twitched. Again. That almost-smile thing he did that drove me insane because I couldn’t tell if he was amused or plotting to fire me with flair.

“Just making sure day one isn’t the last day,” he said coolly.

“You wound me.”

“I doubt anything wounds you,” he replied, voice quieter. Almost thoughtful.

I blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Liam, who was happily munching pancakes and completely ignoring our tension-fueled back-and-forth.

“I’ll be in my office,” Damon said, straightening. “Text if you need anything. Mrs. Brown will be here at two.”

“Got it.”

“And remember...no snooping.”

I put a hand over my heart. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He didn’t look convinced.

As he walked out, I caught Liam watching him too. Then he looked at me and smiled again.

“Your dad is weird,” I whispered.

Liam gave me a tiny thumbs up.

I almost burst out laughing.

Maybe I could do this nanny thing. Maybe I’d already started to care too much. And maybe just maybe the grumpy billionaire and the soft-eyed boy weren’t as cold as they wanted the world to think.