Page 147 of Nine Week Nanny

"You hired someone to find me?"

"Yes." No hesitation, no apology in his tone. Just that steady, clear gaze that used to make my knees weak. That still does.

"Why?"

"Because I needed to see you. To explain."

My chest aches, caught between gratitude that he cared enough to search and absolute panic at what that might mean.

As much as I want to pull him to me, to smell him again, to feel him again, I need him to not be here. I'm not strong enough.

"I appreciate the effort, Pope. I really do." My walls slide up, brick by brick. "But I'm finally finding my footing again. I have a job I love, an apartment that's mine. I can't risk going back to that place."

That place where I lost everything. My job, my savings, my self-respect.

"I'm not asking you to go back." His voice drops lower. "I'm asking you to move forward. With me."

A couple jogs past us, their easy laughter a stark contrast to the tension coiled between us.

"Let's keep walking," I whisper, unable to stand still with the weight of his words pressing down on me.

We continue along the path, our pace slower now, each step measured and careful, like we're both afraid of what happens when we reach the end.

We veer off the main path onto a narrower one that curves behind a stand of ancient magnolias. The only sounds now are distant voices of joggers and the soft crunch of our shoes on packed dirt.

I smell the muddy decay of the small pond nearby, mixing with Pope's cologne.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cuts through the quiet. "Why did I have to find out the way I did?"

Pope exhales heavily, and I watch his jaw flex in the shadows.

"I knew Chris had the photos. I thought I'd neutralized them by getting them thrown out of the custody case." He runs a hand through his hair.

“You knew?”

“I never thought he'd do what he did. I should've known, but I underestimated him. I didn't want you embarrassed, dragged through it unnecessarily."

I stop walking and turn to face him directly. "Do you know what that felt like? To have my life implode because of pictures I didn't even know existed?"

“I can’t begin to imagine how that must have felt. I’m sorry.”

The words tumble out now, all the anger I've kept bottled up since that night after Seaside Terrace when I saw the tabloid.

"What hurt most wasn't just the scandal, Pope. It was your silence." My voice sharpens. "The lack of communication, that's what gutted me. You made decisions about my life without me. You made it seem like I didn't matter."

He doesn't argue or try to defend himself. The moonlight catches the angles of his face, revealing something I've never seen there before—regret, raw and unfiltered.

"You're right. I handled it badly." His voice is steady, honest. "I thought fixing it myself was enough. But I get it now. When you love someone, you don't shut them out. You trust them with the mess, too."

I freeze, his words hitting me like a physical blow. He said he loved me. Again. Not past tense.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I want to deny it, push back against it, protect myself from hoping. But the way he's looking at me makes it impossible to pretend he doesn't mean it.

"You can't," I whisper.

"You're wrong." He takes a half step closer. "I'm still in love with you. I never stopped loving you, and I haven't stopped thinking of you."

The words hang heavy in the humid air between us.