Page 152 of Nine Week Nanny

She shifts her weight, fingers tightening on her tote strap. The hesitation in her posture speaks volumes.

"I'll join you, but I'm getting my own coffee."

"Fair enough."

I watch her disappear into the café, my nerves buzzing beneath my skin like live wires. This could be significant. She's choosing to stay rather than walk away. I turn back to my laptop, opening an email I've already read three times.

The cursor blinks steadily while my leg bounces beneath the table.

When Sloane returns, she sits across from me, setting down a drink that smells of cinnamon and vanilla.

"How's the new job going?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.

"Good. The clinic has a great team. I'm working with some fascinating cases." She takes a sip. "What brings you to Charleston besides tracking me down?"

"I had meetings scheduled." It's not entirely a lie.

"That's nice."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Six weeks. It's a good change from Augusta. Walkable. Good food."

"Any recommendations?"

"Depends what you like." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "There's a place on East Bay Street with incredible shrimp and grits."

We continue like this. We keep it to surface conversation, careful questions, and gentle responses.

Neither of us mentions Palm Beach or Lennon or the photographs. It's like we've tacitly agreed to exist in this bubble where our past doesn't define us.

Thirty minutes pass in what seems like five. She glances at her watch.

"I should get going. I have a client at eleven."

"Of course."

"It was nice seeing you, Pope."

"You too, Sloane."

I watch her walk away, her figure growing smaller against the backdrop of historic buildings and morning light. My coffee sits untouched, cooling in front of me.

The hotel room is quiet when I return. I stare at my laptop screen where numbers blur into meaningless patterns. My half-eaten room service sits abandoned on the desk, the pasta gone cold hours ago.

It's after nine now. She's not going to reach out.

I slam the laptop closed and pace to the window. Charleston's historic district glitters below, tourists and locals mingling onthe streets. Couples walking hand in hand. People with plans and purpose.

My phone buzzes against the desk.

My heart slams into my ribs as I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the water glass in my haste.

Sloane's name appears on the screen. I forget to breathe.

I'm glad you're staying in Charleston for the weekend. Maybe we'll run into each other again.

I read it once. Twice. Three times. The words don't change.