Page 25 of Nine Week Nanny

"Ms. Brennan, I'm Dana Black, the court-appointed guardian ad litem for Lennon." Her voice carries the measured cadence of someone who chooses her words carefully. "My role is to ensure that his adjustment to this new arrangement proceeds smoothly and that his best interests remain the priority during this transition period."

Court-appointed, transition, temporary.

Pope leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. The position makes the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders.

Stop noticing his shoulders.

"Could you tell us about your experience with children of Lennon's age?" Dana asks, drawing my attention back.

"Of course." I shift my focus to include Lennon in the conversation rather than talking over him. I fill her in on my schooling, my recent graduation, the therapy job I accepted, and my babysitting experience.

Her expression doesn’t change, but I can practically hear the unspokenThat’s not what I asked.She wants years of household placements, bedtime routines, and maybe something about organic meal prep. My résumé is built around treatment plans and therapy notes, not nanny logs.

I'm not sure I have a satisfactory answer for her. I'm not a career nanny, and I've never lived with a child before. I've always had a finite beginning and end to each shift.

I do my best to satisfy her questions, going into more detail about the family I sat for regularly in South Carolina.

My gaze drifts toward the backyard visible through the windows. "I see you have a swing set and a big pool. Do you like to swing, Lennon?"

He gives a small shrug, then glances quickly at Camila, as if checking whether this interaction is okay. The silent communication between them speaks volumes. He feels safe with her.

"What kind of daily structure do you typically use with children?" Dana continues.

She’s picturing a veteran nanny with a decade of live-in jobs, color-coded calendars, and a rotation of Montessori crafts. I’m twenty-five, fresh out of grad school, with more babysitting hours than I could ever tally and years of therapy sessions under my belt.

My “structure” is less about chore charts and more about helping kids feel safe enough to be themselves.

"Consistency is crucial," I say aloud, keeping my tone even.

Dana Black nods her head and writes something down.

“Especially," I pause, adjusting for the fact that Lennon’s listening. "Especially after big changes. Regular mealtimes, activities that fit their developmental stage, and predictable quiet periods help children feel grounded."

I don't know what has uprooted this child, but I can sense we are dealing with some major changes here.

Pope hasn't spoken, but I sense his eyes on me, steady and evaluating. A flash of memory, his lips lightly brushing my ear from behind, hands gripping my hips, shoots through me uninvited.

Focus, Sloane.

"And you're comfortable with a live-in arrangement?" Dana asks.

"Yes, absolutely."

Dana nods, seemingly satisfied. "Perhaps Mr. Carrigan could show you the rest of the house? It would be good for you to see the space and living arrangements."

Pope rises to his feet with the fluid grace I remember all too well. "That's a great idea. Let me show you the rest of the house. I'm still learning my way around, myself."

He leads us through an archway into a gleaming kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Stainless steel appliances reflect the morning light. A massive island with marble countertops dominates the center, surrounded by sleek barstools. Everything is immaculate, untouched.

"The kitchen was recently updated," Pope explains, his hand barely skimming the countertop as he walks past. “I’ve recently set up a weekly meal delivery service, but you're welcome to prepare whatever you'd prefer."

I nod, taking it all in. This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment back in grad school.

"Do you cook, Lennon?" I ask, glancing down at the boy who trails behind Camila.

He shrugs one small shoulder, eyes darting around the space.

"He makes excellent tortillas," Camila offers, her hand gently resting on his back. "With his mom."