Page 151 of Nine Week Nanny

And here I am, staring at my phone like a teenager, waiting for Sloane to call.

I close my laptop with a decisive click and lean back in the chair. The room is too quiet, the walls closing in with each minute I spend here alone.

Tomorrow, I need to get out. Even if it's just for a walk. Even if it's just to stop myself from showing up at her door again.

Maybe I'll get the driver to take me to see that facility in Mt. Pleasant.

Morning sunlight filtersbetween historic buildings as I walk down King Street. The Charleston air is crisp against my face. It's cooler today than yesterday.

I've never been one for sightseeing, but Val's voice keeps echoing in my head. "You need to loosen up."

This is my version of loosening up. I'll walk for coffee instead of calling a car. Maybe I'll actually notice the surroundings instead of staring at my phone.

The buildings here tell stories. I love the ornate window boxes, the weathered brick facades that are older than my grandfather. Tourists cluster at corners, consulting maps and pointing excitedly at landmarks that probably seem ordinary to locals.

I spot a narrow alley between two storefronts, leading to a courtyard with a small sign: Indigo Coffee Co.

Perfect.

"Black coffee, please." I scan the nearly empty interior while the barista pours. No excessive chitchat, just efficient service.

I claim a wrought iron table outside, positioning my back to the wall. Old habits die hard. My laptop opens with a soft click, and I force myself to focus on the screen. Emails need answering. Projects need oversight.

Work always makes sense when nothing else does.

The coffee tastes better than the hotel room brew. It's earthy, almost smoky. I take another sip, grateful for the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

Three emails in, and my mind drifts. Would Sloane like this place? She always appreciated hidden gems, places with character.

I redirect my attention to budget projections, determined to stay anchored in something concrete.

A young couple takes the table beside me, laughing about some private joke. The woman's laugh sounds nothing like Sloane's, yet it triggers the memory perfectly. I remember Sloane laughing on the beach, head thrown back, completely uninhibited.

I check my phone again. No messages.

This is pathetic. I'm Pope Carrigan. I don't sit in coffee shops pining after someone who clearly doesn't want what I'm offering.

And yet here I am.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the words on screen blur together. The morning is strange, like I'm playing tourist in my own life.

A flicker of movement catches my eye from the sidewalk. I look up.

Then, a familiar figure comes into view on the sidewalk, and my breath catches. Sloane walks down King Street, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, her honey-brown hair loose around her face. She's not looking my way, so she doesn’t see me. Instead, she’s focused on something ahead.

Then, like magnets finding their poles, her eyes lock with mine. The surprise on her face mirrors what must be written across my own.

She freezes mid-step.

I immediately raise both hands in mock surrender, leaning back in my chair.

"I swear my PI had nothing to do with this," I call out, keeping my voice light. "Pure coincidence. Scout's honor."

A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. Not the full laugh I'd once known, but it breaks the tension crackling between us.

"Were you ever actually a Boy Scout?"

"No. Too busy working odd jobs after school." I close my laptop. "Would you join me? Or is that asking too much after last night?"