Page 146 of Nine Week Nanny

I balance the plastic container of California rolls on my knees, condensation from my wine glass leaving damp circles on my yoga pants.

From my narrow balcony of my unit in this Charleston Single, I can see the entire curve of Hampton Park. Joggers are still making their loops despite the darkness. Their rhythmic movements under the streetlights are hypnotic.

I love this porch and what is becoming my nightly routine after work.

This place isn't much. It's a one-bedroom, tiny galley kitchen, creaky floors. But it's mine. And the location can't be beat.

The other three units in the house have good tenants, too, so it's like being back in a dorm, only I get my own space.

One month down at Palmetto Pediatric and I'm starting to feel like myself again. No tabloids, no whispers. Just me and my patients and this tiny slice of peace.

A pair of headlights cuts through the darkness below. They're bright and intrusive.

A black SUV idles in the visitor parking, the engine still running. It's sleek and expensive, and completely out of place among the college students' second-hand Hondas and my neighbors' practical sedans.

I squint down, curious who's here.

The back door swings open.

My chopsticks clatter against the plastic container as a tall figure steps out. Streetlights catch his profile, and all the breath is immediately sucked out of me.

Pope Carrigan.

My stomach drops to my feet. My lungs forget how to work.

He's taller than I remember, or maybe that's the perfect black suit making him look impossibly long and lean.

His face seems different. He looks older somehow, eyes darker, jaw tighter, even though it's only been about five months. He looks devastating and vital all at once.

He scans the building and finds me instantly, like he's got some internal Sloane-radar. His hand lifts in a small wave.

Our eyes lock. Electricity shoots through me, paralyzing and painful. Suddenly, I can't swallow or breathe.

"What are you doing here?" My voice is thin and shaky. He's out of place here, and I can't make sense of what's happening.

"You're a hard woman to track down." His voice carries clearly in the night air, that deep timbre I'd tried so hard to forget.

I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process that Pope Carrigan is standing beneath my balcony like some twisted modern Romeo.

"Can we talk?" He gestures vaguely with one hand.

I swallow hard, motioning toward the park across the street. "I'll come down. We can walk around Hampton if you want."

Not my apartment. I can't have him in my space, can't risk his scent lingering in my furniture, my sheets, my life. The park is neutral ground.

I set aside my barely-touched dinner and wine, hands trembling as I push open the old balcony door. My reflection in the hall mirror looks shell-shocked, eyes too wide, cheeks flushed.

I take the stairs slowly, each step carrying me closer to the man who shattered my career and my heart in one spectacular implosion.

My feet hit the pavement, and Pope falls into step beside me. We cross the street to Hampton Park in silence, the oak trees looming overhead like ancient guardians. Spanish moss sways in the gentle breeze. The lamplight casts our shadows long across the path.

"Thank you for sending the necklace," Pope says immediately, his voice softer than I remember. "Opening that package... that was the moment I knew I had to find you."

I stiffen, wrapping my arms around myself despite the warm evening. "You're welcome. I had to get it to Lennon as soon as I found it. Did you get it to him? That was over a month ago."

He nods, hands sliding into his pockets. "I did. And to say he was thrilled is an understatement. I was in the middle of custody filings and hearings. Then I went to Augusta using your return address, but you'd already moved." His eyes find mine in the dim light. "Took some time for the PI to track you down. But I wasn't letting you slip away again."

I stop walking, staring at him in disbelief.