Mr Masters, page 6
“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 to go 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.
Chapter Four
I hold the tissue flat, press the soft white parchment to my lips then roll them together as I look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is full and curled just on the ends. My makeup is smoky sexy, and my lips are now a glossy gold.
I turn to look at my behind, and I feel my nerves flutter in my stomach.
I'm wearing a fitted, strapless cream dress, with high heeled gold stilettos complimenting it, plus a small gold clutch giving me something to cling on to. I look good. I know I look good. Sexy and fun was my aim, and I think I nailed the brief.
Tonight’s the night.
For twelve months, Emerson and I have planned our trip to London, convincing ourselves that we were going to be new people. People who have fun and live by the seat of their pants. Not that we didn't do that back home, but we were definitely in a rut. I didn't want to go out in fear that I would run into my ex and one of his bimbos. Emerson didn't want to go out in case we saw her ex with someone else. Our social lives were completely dependant on other people, and I hate that we let that happen.
I hate that I unconsciously let my stupid ex determine what I did. Maybe I wasn't ready to move on and that was just my excuse to keep my heart safe. I've been asked on dates—many times, actually—but nobody ever caught my interest, and I know it would have been a letdown and I'd have come home feeling flat. Declining dates was a better option than suffering disappointment.
So, Emerson and I would watch movies and eat takeout at each other’s houses to save our money for our trip. We both moved home with our parents a year ago when our relationships fell apart, and that, in itself, was a challenge.
Neither of us had lived at home since we were twenty, but we didn’t want to commit to a new lease or anything until we came home from this trip. It was like our lives were on hold until we lived through this experience. And
this is it… now we’re here.
But the bravery I was sure I would have has suddenly disappeared.
The Canadian boys we met on the plane were nice. One of them was gorgeous and we had an instant spark.
Is tonight the night, though? He leaves for Greece tomorrow. This is our one and only night together, and then I’ll probably never see him again. Not that I’m complaining. He isn’t the kind of man I can see myself ending up with long term, but one night of passion might not be such a bad thing. Will I really have sex with a stranger? I haven’t had sex in twelve months, and God, has that particular drought been hard. Harder than hard. I never realized how much I needed sex until I couldn’t have it.
I feel a wave of nausea run through my stomach. I know it’s just nerves, but staying home and spying on Mr. Masters while eating ice cream seems so much more appealing, right now.
Ah, Mr. Masters—the man who makes my stomach flutter, whose voice makes me imagine things that I shouldn’t be imagining.
I need to call an cab. I’ll have to ask him who I call because I have no idea. With one quick look in the mirror, I make my way up into the main house.
Mr. Masters has been snappy with me all day, and I’m not really sure why. We seemed to get along well after our nanny scotch the other night but today, after he heard me on the phone talking about tonight, we are back to square one.
Sam is sprawled on the living room floor, and Mr. Masters is sitting in his wingback chair, reading his book. Willow is sitting at the kitchen table doing an assignment.
“Oh my God,” Sammy yells. “You look so beautiful.”
I hold my clutch in my hands with white-knuckle force, and I swallow the lump in my throat. Mr. Masters' eyes rise over the top of the book, and he gives me the once over.
“Do you know what cab company I call, please?” I ask.
He smiles warmly. “You look lovely, Miss Brielle.”
