Mr Masters: Chapter 3

Our eyes are locked, and when his tongue swipes over his lips again, my breath catches.

“How long has it been since you’ve been with someone?” I ask.

What the hell is in this drink? Truth serum?

He smiles sarcastically. “My sexual behavior isn’t up for discussion tonight.”

My eyebrows rise in surprise. “But mine is?”

“I was merely doing a character analysis.”

I smile against my glass. “As am I.”

His eyes dance with mischief as he watches me. “You’re right, you are refreshingly honest, Miss Brielle.”

I smile.

“If not a little forward,” he adds.

“I could say the same for you, but I don’t see how when I was last with a man has anything to do with my character.”

“It gives me an insight into the kind of life you live.”

I think on it for a moment. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I’m sorry to report that I live the most boring life imaginable, because I haven’t thought about a man or been with a man for over twelve months.’

“I see,” he murmurs, seemingly impressed with my answer.

‘Mr. Masters, I know I may be a busybody, but I can assure you that I am not here to steal your things or fight with your daughter. I’m here to do a great job for you for twelve months, and hopefully find myself in the process.’

He narrows his eyes and sits back in his seat. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

I sip my drink as I contemplate my answer. “I’m going to see the country, learn about its history, and spend my weekends with Emerson.” I shrug. “You never know, I may meet a man and have some fun while I’m here, too.”

“And exactly what does that entail?” he asks, bemused.

This man is so intelligent that I have no idea if he’s genuinely interested in the answer to these questions, or if he’s really just being condescending.

“I’m not sure. All I know is that if I really knew what I needed, I would have gone out and found it at home.”

His eyes hold mine.

What the hell is he thinking?

“Hmm.” He hesitates for a moment. “Tell me about your visa.”

I exhale heavily and sip my rocket fuel. It’s so strong, the fumes go up my nose and I have another coughing fit. “How do you drink this?” I splutter as I pound my chest with a closed fist.

“Takes the edge off.” He smirks.

“Off of what?” I continue to cough. “What edge is this sharp?” I wince.

He chuckles, a deep velvety sound that seeps into my bone marrow, and I feel my heart flutter.

He’s just so…

He arches an eyebrow and I realize that he’s waiting for my answer. “Oh, the visa?” He raises his glass impatiently. God, he really does think I’m dense. “Will you please stop that?” I snap.

“Stop what?”

“The condescending looks and quips.”

A trace of a smile crosses his face. “My apologies.”

I drain the rest of my glass and I hold it out for a top up. I have no idea what I’m doing here, but sweetening him up while drinking scotch seems to be a perfect plan.

He refills my glass, and then I sip my drink, simply watching him for a moment. “Do you always do this?”

“Do I always drink scotch with my nannies and get reprimanded for answering their questions? No.”

“So, you’re a scotch nanny virgin?”

This time it’s him who chokes on his drink as he laughs. “Most definitely. A nanny virgin, anyway. Not so much a scotch virgin.”

I smile broadly. For some reason I like that answer. “See? We’re getting along fine now. This is all going to work out.”

“This is not working out. This is a pleasant distraction.”

My face falls. “Oh.”

His brows furrow. “Please don’t take this personally, but you’re just not what I expected, Brielle.”

“What did you expect?”

He shrugs. “Someone older, experienced, more professional.”

I think for a moment. “The ad didn’t request any of that.”

He sips his scotch and rolls his eyes. “My mother put the ad in with the agency.”

“Your mother?” I frown.

He smirks around his glass. “You seem surprised.”

“Well, I didn’t take you as a mummy’s boy.”

He laughs that velvety laugh again, and I feel it deep in the pit of my stomach. “Not by any means. But she is concerned about Willow, and she wanted to take care of this placement and for us to try something different.”

I smile goofily. “Well…I am different.”

“That you are.”

“Just give me another chance, please?” I plead. “We got off on the wrong foot, sure, but I promise you I will turn this around.”

His eyes hold mine.

“If, in three weeks, you’re still not happy, I’ll get another job in a bar or something, but please don’t get me deported before I have a chance to find another job. I’ve been saving for this trip for twelve months.”

He watches me.

“Please…”

He inhales sharply. “Fine, you have twenty one days. But next time I fire you, don’t beg me to stay.”

I shake my head. “I won’t.”

“Because next time I won’t be pushed over so easily.”

I nod. “Fine, but you have to promise not to give me this truth serum again.” I hold up my glass of scotch.

“Truth serum?”

“I’m quite sure if you asked me anything right now, I would have no choice but to give it to you straight.”

His eyes dance in delight. “Ask me anything,” he whispers darkly.

“What?” I frown.

“Go on. What do you want to know about me?” He raises a single brow. “Off the record, of course.”

I bite my bottom lip to bite back my goofy smile. I like this game. “Okay.” I pause for a moment as I think. “Do you like your women wholesome and pure, or dirty and slutty?”

Satisfaction flashes across his face, and I realize that I just played straight into his hands. He used the truth serum tactic to see what I really wanted to know: his taste in women.

Shit, I need to up my game if I’m going to keep up with this master manipulator.

He sips his scotch and the air swirls between us. “I like the first to act like the latter… but only for me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. God, good answer. What would he be like in bed with all this dominant power? “Oh,” I mumble. I get a vision of him naked, and suddenly, I can’t think of an intelligent reply.

Think…

Think…

Say something intelligent.

“Wholesome sluts must be hard to find these days,” is all I manage to come up with.

He throws his head back and laughs deeply, I find myself smiling like an idiot. Then his face falls serious. ‘Go to bed, Miss Brielle, before this game of truth or dare turns sour.’

I drain my glass and stand. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Masters. I really do appreciate you giving me another chance. You will never find me in your bedroom again.”

He licks his bottom lip as he watches me intently. Sitting on the stool, in his suit with his just fucked hair, he looks nothing short of dreamy.

Electricity zaps between us, and we stare at each other for an extended moment.

Abort mission. He’s old…er… he’s your boss, and you are obviously intoxicated.

Truth serum may also be code for fuck serum.

I stand abruptly. “Thank you, I’ll leave you in peace. Enjoy your night, sir.”

Without looking back, I scurry to my bedroom. Once inside, I lean on the back of the closed door.

My heart is pounding in my chest

Thank God my job is safe.

I have twenty-one days left to secure it.

Don’t blow this, Brielle.

I wake to a thudding sound outside. My room is still somewhat dark, although the sun is trying to rise outside.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

What is that noise? I remain still for a while longer, until I hear it again.

Bump.

Bump.

Bump.

I get up and go to the window. Willow is down below, dressed in a bright blue and white sports uniform. She’s kicking a ball into some nets. Oh, she plays soccer. I wonder why she’s up practicing so early. Maybe she plays this time every week? It’s Saturday. I’m going to go and investigate.

I pull on my robe and make my way up into the house. Mr. Masters is sitting at the table reading the paper, and Samuel is eating his porridge.

“Brelly,” Samuel squeals as he jumps down from his chair to hug me.

“Hello, cutie pie.” I smile as I hug him back. My eyes eventually rise to glance at Mr. Masters, and I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I can’t believe I asked him what type of woman he likes. What was I thinking?

Mental note: don’t drink straight scotch ever again. Hardened criminals don’t even drink that shit. No wonder my head is pounding.

Suddenly, I feel underdressed and over daggy. I run my fingers through my rat’s nest hair as Mr. Masters appears to study me. “What are you guys doing up and dressed so early?’ I ask.

“Willow plays soccer this morning,” he replies.

“What time will we leave?”

Mr. Masters’ face falls. “You don’t work weekends, Brielle. That isn’t necessary.”

“I know.” I take Samuel’s hand in mine. “I’d like to come and support Willow, if that’s okay.”

He frowns, just as Willow walks through the door with her ball tucked under her arm.

“Willow, give me a minute and I’ll just get dressed,” I say. “I’ll be five minutes, tops.”

She scowls. “What for?”

“I want to come and watch you play soccer.”

“What? You’re not coming, and it’s football. Stay at home and paint your nails or something.”

“Willow,” Mr. Masters chastises. “Where are your manners?”

I raise an eyebrow. “To be honest, football isn’t my thing, but coffee vans and sunlight are, so I would like to come.”

She glares at me, and I smile sarcastically, my eyes wide and waiting. “Besides, my nails are already painted.” I hold my hand up and wiggle my fingers. Willow rolls her eyes in disgust.

“Come on, Sammy, you can help me find some clothes.” I smile at the cute little boy holding my hand.

“Please don’t call him Sammy,” Mr. Masters interrupts. “His name is Samuel. Sammy is a seal’s name.”

“Oh.” I frown down at Samuel. “Is Sammy the Seal a thing?” I think for a moment. “I don’t know about that, I’ve never heard of a seal called Sammy.”

“That’s because even seals don’t like the name Sammy,” Mr. Masters says flatly.

Samuel swings my hand in his and I smile down at him. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask.

He glances at his father nervously before he brings his attention back to me. “I like it when you call me Sammy,” he whispers.

My eyes rise to meet Mr. Masters, and I raise my eyebrow sarcastically.

Willow folds her arms over her chest in disgust. “Didn’t you hear what Dad said? He doesn’t like it.”

“Then I won’t call your father Sammy,” I reply. “Easily fixed.”

Mr. Masters drops his head, resigned, and I turn my attention to Willow. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask sweetly.

She narrows her eyes in contempt. “Stupid.” She sneers.

“Willow,” Mr. Masters growls. “Cut. It. Out. Immediately.”

I smile. “Now, I know for certain your dad wouldn’t like me calling you stupid, but if you insist, I’ll call you Queen B.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fucking unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath,

“When you two are quite finished,” Mr. Masters snaps, interrupting our quarrel. “Willow, mind your language and show Miss Brielle some respect.”

“But I don’t want her to come to football.” She pouts.

“Too bad.” I smile. “I’ll be five minutes. Come on, Sammy, let’s go find me some clothes.”

The walk across the fields to the soccer game is awkward for two reasons. Firstly, Willow hasn’t talked to me at all since we left the house, and I feel I may have made a mistake pushing my way here. Secondly, the mothers that are now staring right at me. Holy hell on a broomstick. Every millionaire mummy in the world must be here, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a photo shoot, yet all eyes are now fixed firmly on me. The women are literally pausing their conversations to stare at me. Mr. Masters must be the topic of a lot of conversation around here. And why wouldn’t he be? They probably all want to bang him.

I really didn’t think this through very well, and I most definitely didn’t think about my outfit. I’m wearing tight denim jeans, a white T-shirt, with a large army green jacket over the top. My long, dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and I have white runners on, with gold Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses framing my face. I must look eighteen at most.

Mr. Masters and Willow are walking in front of Sammy and me, the two of us holding hands. We walk past at least twenty people standing on the sideline, and I can almost hear the whispers of judgement as we pass.

“Did your other nannies ever come to watch, Willow?” I ask Sammy.

“Nope.”

“Has your father ever brought someone else to a soccer game?”

“Like who?” Sam frowns.

“Like, one of his lady friends, perhaps?”

He shrugs. “Dad doesn’t have lady friends, just man friends.”

“He’s never had a lady friend?” I ask, surprised.

Sam shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh.”

Willow waves to her friends before she runs off to the dressing shed.

Mr. Masters chooses a spot and puts down three fold-up chairs. “Here, Miss Brielle.” He gestures to my chair.

“Thank you.” I smile before I fall into it awkwardly. I really should have stayed home. I’m feeling very uncomfortable.

“Dad, do you want to kick?” Sam asks as he throws the spare soccer ball to his father.

“Sure thing.” He takes Sam over to the other field, where they begin to kick the ball to each other. I watch on, and if I was a nice person I would tell you I am watching Samuel playing happily with his father. But, because I’m a dirty pervert, I can openly admit that I’m watching Mr. Masters, and nobody else.

He’s wearing a cream cable knit jumper with light, tight jeans that fit snug in all the right places. His dark hair has a bit of a curl to it from the moisture in the early morning air.

Sam kicks a high ball, and Mr. Masters laughs as he tries to reach it.

He has a beautiful laugh and such straight teeth.

I can’t help but wonder when his last girlfriend was.

He must have a girlfriend now. Men who look like that, with his charisma and brains, are never single. He obviously just hasn’t introduced her to the children yet.

Good for him. I hope she’s fucking his brains out. God, I know I would be if I was her.

Wait, where did that come from? Since when have I ever found thirty-nine-year-old men attractive? Not that I’ve ever really known one.

It’s okay to think he’s attractive. He is attractive. It doesn’t mean that I want to fuck him, although, one does have to wonder what he would be like in bed?

I bet he’s well endowed. My eyes drop to his jeans as I investigate my theory.

“I’m sorry, we haven’t met?” a snooty female voice interrupts. I glance up to see an attractive blonde lady standing over me, and I quickly stand from my seat.

“Hello. I’m Brielle.” I hold out my hand and she shakes it in hers.

“I’m Rebecca.” She smiles.

“Hi, Rebecca.” I smile awkwardly.

She frowns, clearly concentrating as she studies my face. “Have we met before?”

“No.” I pause as my eyes seek out Mr. Masters on the other field, completely oblivious. “I’m Mr. Masters new au pair. I’m from Australia.”

Her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Oh, really?” She turns to look at Mr. Masters. “How… lovely.” She hesitates. “I currently have an au pair living with me, but she’s from Italy. Her name is Maria.”

“Really?” I smile.

‘Yes, you two will have to meet. She’s around your age, I’d say, and she’s been with me for six months now.’

“That would be fantastic, thank you.” Maybe I could get some survival tips off this girl. This could work out well.

“She’s not here today. Maria doesn’t work weekends.” She catches Mr. Masters eye and waves sexily, and he waves back as he kicks the ball.

“I’ll go get my chair and sit with you guys.”

“Okay.” I smile. “Do you need any help?”

“No, I’m fine, dear,” she replies as she walks off.

She seems surprisingly nice. I sit and look around for a moment, spotting Willow near the sheds. A group of three girls from the other team are around her, and I can tell by Willow’s body language that they are not her friends. She seems uncomfortable.

One of them hits the ball out of Willow’s hand.

What? Are they messing around?

I watch them and unease fills me. I look around, but nobody else seems to be noticing this exchange. Maybe they are her friends and I’m just imagining things.

Mr. Masters comes and takes a seat next to me just as I sit down, while Sam keeps kicking with another boy.

“Who are those girls talking to Willow?” I ask him.

He narrows his eyes, trying to focus.

“Do you wear glasses?” I ask as I watch him.

“I don’t need glasses,” he huffs.

“Then why are you squinting?”

“Because my eyes aren’t bionic.”

Jeez. Touchy.

“I think they go to her school, yes. One of them used to be a good friend of Willow’s, but she hasn’t been around for years now.”

“Oh,” I reply, distracted as I turn my attention back to the girls. Willow’s teammates come out of the sheds, and one of the girls says something to the three girls that were talking to Willow, and then one of them snaps back. Nope, definitely not friends. That is a hostile exchange.

The coaches come out and the teams line up to run onto the field.

Rebecca arrives back, struggling with her chair before she sets it up next to Mr. Masters. He rolls his lips, as if he’s unimpressed. “Hello, Rebecca,” he offers.

“Hi, Julian, how are you?” She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. I have to bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. I keep my eyes on the field in front of me.

I think Rebecca is a bit sweet on Mr. Masters.

The whistle blows and the game begins.

“Willow is playing centre forward?” I whisper to him.

“Yes.” He frowns, turning to me. “You know football?”

“I know most things,” I whisper back as I keep my eyes on the game.

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Julian, I called you this week about the fundraiser. Did you get my message?” Rebecca asks in a high-pitched voice, trying too hard to sound casual.

He hesitates. “No, I didn’t sorry.”

“I wanted to see if you would like to go to the fundraiser together. We could carpool. I can drive so you can have a few drinks.”

“Erm…” He hesitates again, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling as I stare at the game.

“I’m sorry, I already have a date for that night. Some other time, perhaps?”

Awkward.

“Oh,” she sighs, dejected. “I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.”

“It’s new,” he says quietly.

I smile on the inside. I’m happy he isn’t interested in going on a date with Rebecca. She’s just too ‘blah’ for someone like him.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence until I can’t take the awkwardness of it anymore.

“I’m going to go and get a coffee.” I stand.

“I’ll show you where to go,” Mr. Masters immediately gets up, too.

I smile at him knowingly, and he widens his eyes, silently asking for me to rescue him.

“Okay, lead the way.” I hold my hand out.

He looks down, and his good manners prevail. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Rebecca?”

“Yes, please, darling. Just white.”

“No sugar?”

“I’m sweet enough.” She winks and gives a sexy little shrug of her shoulder.

Oh, she’s creepy weird. Unable to help it, I release a little giggle.

Mr. Masters frowns and walks towards the coffee van, leaving me to fall beside him.

“Do you really have a date on that night?” I ask.

He fakes a shiver. “No, but I have a new incentive to find one now.”

I laugh out loud. “I think she seems nice.”

“Then you should date her.”

“Julian,” a brunette lady in her early forties calls. “Where have you been hiding, darling?” She waves and smiles before she comes over and kisses him on both cheeks. She holds his biceps and inspects him from head to toe. “I swear, Julian, you get yummier every time I see you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He laughs, and it’s that deep, velvety laugh of his that tells me he genuinely likes this lady. “Nadia, please meet Brielle, my new nanny,” he introduces.

She looks me up and down, too. “Hello.” But her offered smile is fake.

“Hello,” I reply timidly.

Jesus, this place is like Tinder on crack.

They begin to make conversation, but I feel like a third wheel.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” I smile. “Nice to meet you, Nadia.”

“Likewise, Brielle. See you next time.”

I make my way over to the coffee van and stand in line to order. I watch Mr. Masters escape one woman only to be accosted by another, again and again.

He’s like a rock star around here.

I make it back to my seat and continue watching the game, until eventually he returns and falls back into his chair beside me.

“You sure are definitely popular around here,” I whisper.

He seems embarrassed. “Unwanted attention, I can assure you.” He looks around. “Where’s Rebecca? I have her coffee.”

“Oh, she’s over there organizing another date for the charity auction.”

He rolls his eyes. “No doubt.”

My phone rings, the name Emerson lighting up my screen.

“Hey, babe.” I smile.

“Hi!” she squeals, and I hold the phone away from my ear and giggle. Mr. Masters frowns.

“We still on for tonight?” I ask.

Mr. Masters keeps his eyes on the game and pretends not to listen, but I know he can hear everything.

“Yep. Wear something sexy. The Canadian boys are coming.”

“Really?” I glance at my boss as I speak to Emerson. “Have you spoken to them?” I reply as I lower my voice. We met two Canadian backpackers on the flight on the way over. We did mention going out with them tonight, but this is the first I’ve heard of it since.

‘Yes. Oh my God, and the gorgeous one is really into you.’ I bite my lip to stifle my smile, and I push the phone so close to my head, it feels like it nearly becomes embedded in my skull. I know how childish we sound, and for some reason, I don’t want Mr. Masters hearing this.

“We’ll see,” I reply, trying to act casual.

“See you at eight at my house. Wear your sexiest dress.”

I feel my nerves flutter. “Okay, see you then.” I hang up and sip my coffee awkwardly. Mr. Masters stares at the soccer game, and for some reason I feel like I should offer an explanation.

“I’m a little nervous about going out tonight.”

His unimpressed eyes turn to me. “Why?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Strange country, new people.”

He raises an eyebrow and seems amused. I turn and continue to watch the game. It’s weird. I go from feeling comfortable around him one minute, to feeling like a stupid child in the next.

“You did come here to find yourself, Brielle. I assume you will start that particular project tonight,” he says flatly.

Are you for real?

He’s openly sarcastic about the fact that I’m going out with the backpackers tonight. Is he unaware that, for the last two hours, I have watched every woman around this godforsaken field try to bang him as if he’s The King of England?

I sip my coffee, remaining silent.

Screw this.

I am going to have sex tonight. I’m going to have wild, uninhibited sex with a young Canadian—one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m an errant teenager.

One who doesn’t have a brain or a cute curl through his hair.

Somebody whose name isn’t Mr. Fucking Masters.