Page 107 of Nine Week Nanny

"No." I move fast, blocking her path to the door. "Don't."

Her eyes flash. "Don't what? Don't leave? Don't make this awkward? What exactly do you want from me, Pope?"

"I want you to stay." The words come out raw, honest in a way I didn't plan. "Please."

Her expression falters, vulnerability peeking through the anger. We stand frozen in this moment, everything hanging on what happens next.

Sloane's eyes narrow, her knuckles white where she grips her purse strap.

"Stay? Now you want me to stay? You've been stretching so hard to avoid me the last two days, I was worried you'd pull something." Her voice breaks slightly.

"That's not?—.”

"Oh, sorry. You're right. The nanny shouldn't talk to the boss like that."

"Where is this coming from? When have I ever treated you like that?"

"I heard you on the phone, calling me 'the goddamned nanny' and talking about me as the person ‘who you fuck.'"

The blood drains from my face. My stomach drops through the floor.

"What?! I never said that."

"You're going to gaslight me, now? I heard you with my own ears yesterday morning."

I wrack my brain. I've never seen her like that. And then it occurs to me. That was my reaction when Warren told me what Chris was alleging.

"You took that out of context." My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

"I'm not sure what context that says anything other than exactly what I heard." She hugs herself tighter, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

I run my hand through my hair, my chest tight with shame. The memory floods back.

"Sloane, I had no idea you overheard that. God, I—" I take a step toward her, but she backs away. "I can explain. That wasn't—I didn't mean?—"

"Didn't mean what? To reduce me to a job title and a convenient hole to put your dick?” Her voice is steady now, controlled in a way that scares me more than if she were screaming.

I exhale slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. "I know how it sounded. And I'm sorry. But there's more happening than you know."

She shifts her weight, still clutching her purse like a shield. The kitchen light catches on her face, highlighting the wariness in her eyes. She doesn't trust me anymore, and why should she?

"Please," I gesture to the living room. "Five minutes. Let me explain what's happening with Lennon, with Chris."

Her jaw tightens. "Chris?"

"My father. Lennon's father." I swallow hard. "The reason I've been so distant."

She stands unmoving for several seconds, weighing my words against the hurt. Finally, she gives a short nod and sets her bag on the counter.

"Five minutes."

She doesn't sit, instead she moves into the living room and stands near the couch, keeping the coffee table between us. Her arms remain firmly crossed over her chest.

I follow, leaving space between us, knowing I've lost the right to stand close to her. The distance feels like miles.

"I'm listening," she says, her voice cool and professional, like we're discussing Lennon's reading progress.

I take a deep breath, knowing these next few minutes might be my only chance to fix what I've broken.