Page 155 of Nine Week Nanny

I force a nod, even as heat prickles across my skin like my body can’t decide if it’s frozen or burning.

“Yeah, sorry. I met Warren once. It was brief, it’s nothing. It just caught me off guard.”

“He’s a great guy, right? How he could have done anything and chose to be a family attorney says everything you need to know about him.”

I remember his warm smile, his quiet confidence. And then I remember how he excused himself to take a call and never came back. My stomach twists, the same sharp drop I felt that night when I realized he wasn’t coming back.

Yeah. A real stand-up guy.

“Yeah. Great guy,” I say, even though the memory of him walking out mid-sentence still burns. “I don’t really know anything about him, but I’m so glad he’s been a good guide for you.”

I shove the whiplash aside, reminding myself Warren was there for Pope, not me. What matters is that Lennon had someone fighting for him.

I unclench my hand from around my glass, easing my fingers one by one. We move on to the details, the home visits, and things settle back down.

Every word between us vibrates with something unsaid. He leans closer when I speak, like each syllable matters. The string lights overhead cast golden reflections in his eyes, and I remember how it felt when those eyes looked down at me in the darkness.

A silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility. I test the distance with a sharper edge.

"You tracked me down, Pope. What if I told you I don't forgive you?"

He doesn't flinch. "Then I'd keep showing up until you did."

The breeze turns sharp across the rooftop, carrying salt from the harbor. Goosebumps rise along my arms, but I don't reach for my jacket draped over the chair.

"That's the problem, Pope. You'd keep showing up." I wrap my fingers around my glass. "But showing up isn't the same as staying."

His eyes never leave mine. "Fair point."

"You know what else wasn't fair?" The wine has loosened something tight inside me.

“I know a lot of this wasn’t fair to you. I wanted to help Lennon, and you got hurt in the process.”

“That. And you deciding what I could handle and shutting me out when things got complicated. It wasn't fair that only you got to make choices for both of us without giving me any say. I can handle taking the heat to help Lennon. What I couldn’t take is you abandoning me without telling me anything.”

Pope doesn't argue or defend himself. He just nods, once, acknowledging the truth.

"I was wrong." His voice is low, steady. "I thought I was protecting you. But all it did was hurt you and make me lose you. I know now I handled it all wrong.”

He says it without defense, without excuses. No corporate spin, no careful language to minimize liability. Just raw truth.

It rattles me, because this is what I wanted all along—honesty, not walls. Not the calculated distance he put between us when things got hard.

"I can't go back to secrecy and half-truths." My voice cracks. "I won't survive it a second time."

Pope reaches across the table, his fingertips brushing mine. "No more secrets. Ever."

The contact burns. My breath hitches, caught between the instinct to pull back and the need to feel him. His words hit something raw. It's the part of me that wanted him to fight for me, not protect me from afar.

My chest aches with the force of it.

"You say that now." I shake my head. "But when things get messy?—"

"Things are already messy." His fingers remain, barely touching mine. "And I'm still here. I know now."

I push my chair back, needing air, needing distance from the gravity of him. The wooden legs scrape against the concrete as I stand.

But Pope rises too, following me as I step away from the table.