Chapter six: pajamas, panic and Scrambled eggs
989 Words
I came for coffee. Just coffee.
But instead, I got Damon Vale. In pajamas.
And not just any pajamas. We’re talking low-slung grey pants, barefoot, and a clingy T-shirt that looked like it was made to personally offend me.
His arms should’ve had a warning label.
I froze in the kitchen doorway, one fuzzy slipper halfway inside the room, the other still on tile. My brain short-circuited, and my feet weren’t taking any commands. He was leaned casually against the island, scrolling through something on a tablet, the early sunlight painting gold over his already too-perfect hair.
Then he looked up.
And smirked.
“Are you going to keep staring,” he said, voice still rough from sleep, “or are you hoping to join me so we can discuss Liam’s schedule in detail?”
Dead.
Buried.
Resurrected just to die again.
I blinked. “What ...oh! No, I mean-yes. Yes, of course.”
Smooth.
He pulled out the stool opposite him like this was a business meeting and not a scene from a romantic comedy I did not sign up for.
I shuffled over awkwardly and sat down, trying very hard not to look at his arms. Or his neck. Or the vein on his forearm that seemed to be mocking my life choices.
He glanced at me. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
His lips twitched, like that answer amused him. He moved with quiet precision, grabbing a second mug and pouring coffee into it with the skill of a man who had too much money to be this domestic.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Both,” I said, watching as he prepared it and slid the mug in front of me like this was a five-star café and not his ridiculously fancy kitchen.
“You eat breakfast?”
“Yes,” I said, then paused. “Unless this is a trap and the food here is secretly laced with nanny-repellent.”
He gave me a long, amused look. “I don’t poison my staff.”
“Noted,” I said, sipping my coffee. “That’s reassuring.”
He turned back to the counter, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Scrambled okay?”
Damon Vale. Billionaire. Father. Hot. Makes breakfast.
I was convinced this man was sent to destroy me.
“Scrambled is perfect.”
He cooked in silence, which gave me way too much time to wonder if I was drooling. Not over the eggs. Over him. Every time he moved, his muscles flexed, and the T-shirt shifted, and I was this close to combusting on the spot.
Why was my boss hot?
Why did my boss exist like this?
He plated the eggs with toast and slid the dish toward me.
I blinked at it. “You didn’t have to make me breakfast.”
“You’re watching my son. Feeding you seems fair.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to daily breakfast incentives.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t push it.”
“Fair.”
We ate in a surprisingly comfortable silence until he tapped his tablet.
“Liam’s schedule,” he said. “Let’s start with the basics.”
“Hit me.”
“Wake-up is 7:30 a.m., give or take. He prefers soft lighting in the morning. Breakfast by 8, nothing too crunchy. Textures matter no apples with skin. Eggs scrambled soft. No toast crusts.”
“So... he’s a four-year-old with gourmet preferences.”
“He’s particular,” Damon said without missing a beat. “Routine is key. Changes throw him off. He likes puzzles, books, drawing. Doesn’t like sudden loud noises or unfamiliar people.”
I nodded, taking mental notes.
“Speech therapy twice a week, Monday and Thursday. Mrs. Brown handles that. I’ll introduce you later.”
“Cool. Anything else?”
“Weekends are off. He spends them with my parents. You’ll have that time to yourself.”
“Oh wow,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Call it a perk,” he said, sipping his coffee.
I was already picturing sleeping in and binge-watching reality shows in bed like a champion.
“I mostly work from my home office,” he continued. “I like being near Liam, especially if something comes up. But occasionally I travel or have to go into the main office. When I’m gone, the house runs on your lead.”
“No pressure.”
“Exactly the right attitude,” he said dryly. Then, as if remembering something important, he added, “I value privacy. Don’t go into my office unless invited. And my bedroom is off-limits.”
My face went nuclear. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck.
“W-Why would I go into your bedroom?” I blurted. “That’s. ..weird. Who does that? Pfft, not me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Just making it clear.”
“Crystal.”
God. Kill me. Why did I say ‘bedroom’ like it was a forbidden word? And why did my brain immediately picture what was under that T-shirt?
I stirred my eggs, pretending to be chill while internally screaming into the void.
Focus on the kid, Wren. Not the torso. Not the voice. Not the hands. THE KID.
“You think you can handle all that?” Damon asked.
I glanced up. His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp.
“I mean... probably?” I shrugged. “I haven’t lost the kid or set the house on fire yet, so we’re off to a good start.”
He didn’t smile. But the corner of his mouth curved just enough to send a flutter through my stomach.
Butterflies. Literal butterflies.
Professionalism: zero. Survival: doubtful.
This job was going to be harder than I thought. And not just because I had no idea what I was doing.
But because my boss?
Was six-foot-four inches of walking temptation in pajama pants.
- Writer
