Page 159 of Nine Week Nanny

She shrugs, but there’s a softness in her expression. “Guess so.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up. I don’t say it out loud, but it feels like more than a coincidence. “Then I want to see your go-to. Is it close?”

“Probably a ten-minute walk,” she says, nodding. “It’s close to my place, too, so I can freshen up after coffee for whatever tourist activity we fall into.”

I small and nod, surprisingly looking forward to all of it.

She veers toward the hotel’s bike rack just out of the large double doors. Crouching, she checks the chain on a blue cruiser with a basket tied to the front.

“Is that your bike? Did you ride it here last night?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Of course.” She pats the seat. “I ride everywhere around downtown. Easier than finding parking.”

I shake my head, amused. “You’ve been here how long, and already you’re a local?”

“Six weeks,” she says, her chin lifting, proud. “And yes. I love it here.”

There’s no hesitation in her voice. No trace of the woman I left behind in Palm Beach, gutted and untethered. She’sstanding on her own now, and it makes me want to earn my place in her world instead of bending hers into mine.

I nod toward the cruiser. “Why don’t you ride it back to your place, change, take your time. I’ll grab us a table at Kudu and wait. Text me when you’re ready. Tell me what to get you.”

Her eyes flick to mine, cautious, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m full of shit or being genuine.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

Her lips twitch. “Okay, if you’re offering, I will. I need to get out of this dress. I’ll be there in fifteen. Oh, and I’ll take a large latte, please.”

She’s off, and I watch her gracefully pedal the bike down the road and disappear down an alley.

I pull out my phone, type inKudu Coffee. Never thought I’d be this eager to sit alone in a café. But for the first time in a long time, waiting feels like part of the point.

The place is buzzing—baristasshouting names over the hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs against concrete floors. I’ve staked out a corner table, her latte already in front of me, steam curling from the lid.

My thumb skates over the rim, restless. It’s been years since I’ve waited on anyone. Usually, I’m the one people wait for.

The door swings open, and she steps in.

For a second, the room tilts. Fresh clothes, hair pulled back, skin still flushed from her shower.

There’s nothing glamorous about it, but Christ, it hits me harder than anything she’s worn in Palm Beach. This is Sloane, unvarnished, unguarded, alive.

My body reacts before I can stop it. There’s a tightness in my chest, a pull low in my gut. All from the sight of her walking across a coffee shop.

Her eyes find me, and she slows. Not warily, but not rushing either. It’s like she’s reminding both of us she hasn’t decided what to do with me yet.

I stand, sliding the cup toward her as she approaches. “Large latte. At your service.”

She arches a brow, accepting the cup. “You make a good coffee boy.”

“Only to you,” I shoot back with a crooked smile. Truth is, I’d wear the title if it meant keeping that look on her face.

She shakes her head, settling across from me, sipping slowly, watching me over the rim. For a while, it’s easy talking about her job, the new program she’s working on, and the way she can walk to work from her apartment.

She doesn’t say it outright, but I hear the pride in her voice. She’s exactly where she needs to be, and for the first time in months, I experience relief when it comes to Sloane. Everything that happened didn’t break her.

Even if she ultimately decides not to give me another chance, I can at least know she’s going to be okay.