Page 24 of Nine Week Nanny

"Please, come in." Camila steps aside, revealing a boy standing a few feet behind her.

He's small for seven, with shaggy dark hair that falls across his forehead and enormous brown eyes that seem to be taking it all in.

His planet-covered t-shirt hangs loosely on his thin frame. My heart squeezes at the careful stillness in his posture. I recognize that watchfulness from many of my therapy sessions.

I crouch down to his eye level, making sure to leave plenty of space between us.

"Hi. You must be Lennon. I'm Sloane. It's really nice to meet you."

He studies me for a moment before offering a small nod, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"That's a cool necklace you have on," I tell him, noticing the unique black stone on the gold chain.

He fists the charm in his hand and bites his bottom lip.

Heavy footsteps echo from deeper in the house, and I look up as a tall figure appears from the hallway.

My stomach drops.

Pope.

Recognition flashes in his dark brown eyes before his expression shifts to careful neutrality. He's dressed in a crisp button-down, similar to what he wore that night at Seaside Terrace. Even if he were wearing a poodle skirt, there's no mistaking the broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, or the intensity that radiates from him.

He clears his throat and approaches me like he's introducing himself. I guess I need to play along.

"Ms. Brennan." His voice is controlled, professional, as if we've never met, as if I don't know exactly how that voice sounds when it's rough with desire and breathing hot against my ear.

"Thank you for coming. I'm Pope Carrigan."

He extends his hand, and I take it automatically. Even that brief contact sends an unwelcome tingle up my arm. I withdraw quickly, fighting to keep my expression neutral.

The man who told me he didn't have kids is now suddenly a single father hiring a part-time nanny?

A third adult appears beside him. She's a woman with auburn-streaked hair and assessing eyes who must be the guardian ad litem Vanessa mentioned.

"This is Ms. Black," Pope confirms, gesturing toward her. "She's the court-appointed representative for Lennon."

I nod politely, struggling to process this bizarre situation while maintaining my professional demeanor.

Pope steps back, gesturing toward the living room visible through an archway. "Please, let's continue our discussion in here."

I follow his lead, hyperaware of his presence as we move deeper into the house. The polite conversation does nothing to mask the unspoken questions hanging between us.

The living room is a stunning display of wealth with an open concept that frames the clean and bright greens and blues of the ocean beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. The late afternoon light streams across the open concept living space and expensive furniture that looks barely used.

Didn’t he say he just moved here days ago, and was staying in the hotel? Was that all a lie to get me into his bed? Holy fuck.

Camila gently guides Lennon toward a cream-colored sofa. "Come sit with me, mijo." Her voice is soft but firm. The boy complies, perching on the edge like he's not quite sure what to think of all of this.

He isn't especially warm with Pope, so I'm working hard to try to understand the dynamics here. Vanessa said there was trauma involved, and this situation is temporary, so there must be a story to all of this.

Pope extends his hand toward a chair positioned across from them. "Please, Ms. Brennan."

Ms. Brennan.Not Sloane. Not even a hint that a week ago, his mouth was on my neck as he stood behind me naked, pushing my limits with his confident strokes.

I sink into the offered seat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. It's my best impression of someone who has her shit together.

Ms. Black settles into an armchair between us, creating a professional triangle. She places a leather portfolio on the coffee table and adjusts her wire-rim glasses.