Barefoot in the Sun by Roxanne St. Claire Read Free Book Online

at the familiar cycle of worry she spent so much time treading along, Zoe let her gaze drift over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind her, scanning the medical tomes and landing on a framed photo of a little boy. Was that Oliver?
    Shooting forward, she picked up the frame, a weird heaviness in her arm as she brought the picture closer and studied the face of a boy who could only be Oliver’s son.
    No Internet search had ever mentioned a child. But then, he’d be the kind of man to take great care to keep his child out of the limelight, wouldn’t he?
    She tried to swallow, but a lump of longing and dismay squeezed her throat. Oliver had a son. She’d have given anything to have been the woman to give him a son.
    She guessed the boy in the picture to be five or six, missing front teeth, the last of lingering baby chubbiness around his chin. But there was no question what gene pool this child had been dipped in.
    He had Oliver’s distinct intelligent gleam in his mahogany eyes, the same flat brows, and something about his lightly freckled cheeks hinted at a bone structure that would be strong and prominent once the right hormones and age kicked in.
    It was a school picture, taken in a navy polo shirt with an insignia that read Cumberland Academy. A private school, of course.
    Zoe had been homeschooled by Pasha.
    The door opened and Zoe froze, not wanting to be caught ogling Oliver’s child as he returned to continue their conversation. Knowing her head didn’t even show over the back of the chair, she waited, completely still.
    Maybe Oliver would think she’d left, and when he went out to find her she could replace the picture and he wouldn’t—
    A sniff broke the silence. And another, followed by a full-blown sob.
    Zoe bit her lip to not react.
    That wasn’t Oliver. Probably one of his staffers having a breakdown because he’d yelled at her. Maybe it was Big Red. A splash of satisfaction warmed her gut. Bitch got what she—
    “I hate this!” The voice was thin, broken, and frail. “I hate him .” A smack against the leather sofa underscored the emotion.
    That wasn’t the receptionist or the secretary.
    “It’s so not fair!”
    That was a kid. Zoe slowly turned the chair, making it squeak and getting a loud gasp in response. As she lifted her gaze from the picture, she met the very same face in three dimensions. Maybe a year or two older, eyes brimming with tears, a Chicago Bulls tank top draped over skinny shoulders that shuddered with the effort to stop crying.
    “Who are you?” he asked, eyes popping in surprise.
    “Fairy Godmother.”
    For a moment he tried to speak, but another shuddering sob came out as a half hiccup, half burp.
    “Why the waterworks, kid?”
    He swiped his eyes, a soft color rising to his cheeks. “Who are you, really?”
    “Friend of…” She took a not-too-wild guess. “Your dad’s?”
    “Are you another nanny?”
    Her heart slipped a little at the mix of hope and dread in his voice. “Have there been a few?”
    “Like, nineteen in two weeks.”
    She almost smiled. “That’s a lot.”
    “Okay, four. But since we got here and have to live in that stupid, ugly hotel, there’s like a different one every day.”
    “What stupid, ugly hotel do you live in?”
    “The Ritz-Carlton.”
    “Oh, yeah, the stupidest and ugliest of them all.” Why did Oliver live in a hotel?
    “I know, right?” He sniffed again. “I was glad all their dumb babysitters were busy and my mom had to bring me here all day.”
    She dropped off…something. His son was a something? “Yeah, ’cause what’s better than hanging out at the cancer ward?”
    He choked on a laugh he didn’t want to have but couldn’t help. “So, are you talking to my dad about the job?”
    A job, not that job. “More or less. Are you looking for him?”
    He shrugged, then shook his head. “I’m mad at him.”
    “I heard.” She set the picture on the desk to lean forward, intrigued. “What’d he do?”
    He