Page 16 of Catching Trouble

I nodded. “Chloe is here to help with your English. That’s all. No one’s babysitting you.”

Sophie stared at me, squinting slightly. Then sighed. “Fine. What room am I in? Same as last time?”

She remembered? Her last—and only—visit to this house had been a year ago, just before the club opened. Prior to that, I’d hopped around the coast, living in cramped apartments.

“Yes. First off the kitchen. Nearest the pool,” I said.

“Right. I’ll settle in.”

“I’ll help you,” I offered, stepping forward. But Sophie had already grabbed her bag.

“No need.” Without another word, she swept past me, past the pool, and slipped into the kitchen through the terrace door.

I watched her go, something tugging at my chest. Our reunion had been cold. Then I looked at Chloe—barefoot on the grass, hair dripping wet. What must Sophie be thinking?

I’d wanted this moment to go well. A proper greeting and a chat about her trip. Not an almost-naked meet and greet with her new nanny.

“Nice kid,” Chloe said behind me.

I turned. Was she being sarcastic?

She met my look with a shrug. “What? She’s your average preteen. They don’t smile much. Especially if the adults around them don’t.”

Something flickered in her expression. Was she laughing at me?

I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. I’d ask her to leave, but with Valerie breathing down my neck, a business to save, and a daughter to reconnect with, I probably needed her more than she needed me.

Instead, I cleared my throat. “I’ll organise a plumber to look at the annex shower.”

“Merci,” she muttered.

I turned to walk away, but something stopped me. “And just so we’re clear: I’m neither bored, nor a playboy.”

Her mouth parted, and a blush rose in her cheeks.

“We don’t have to be friends, Chloe. But I’d appreciate a little more respect while you’re staying in my home. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a proper shower.”

Leaving her on the grass, I walked to the house. I didn’t look back, but I could feel her stare burning holes between my shoulder blades.

6

CHLOE

Isat on my bed, dragging a brush through my hair. It’d gone poofy from the outdoor shower and I was struggling to tame it into something that didn’t resemble a cloud.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m bothering,” I muttered, leaning over to run my fingers over the little black kitten’s belly. He stretched, extending the little toe beans at the end of his paws.

He’d reappeared as soon as Maxime and his daughter left the garden. I’d brought him into the annex. After the shower debacle, I genuinely needed company.

I’d brought him in and fed him the remains of a breakfast baguette from my backpack. Now he sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, purring with a belly full of cheese.

It turned out he was a greatlistener. I told him about my near run-in with death, the sea glass, the water and my almost being garrotted by a fishing net.

I’d also told him about my boss. About his tattoos, his incredible body, general sour nature and the fact that he made my blood boil.

But then, we moved onto other, moreinterestingtopics ofdiscussion. Namely, the way Maxime hauled me out of the water like I was a rag doll, falling into his lap on the boat and the way he stared at me when I washed his hands in the outdoor shower.

I blew a shaky breath. What was it about the experience that stayed with me?