Page 28 of Nine Week Nanny

Lennon's small fingers twist the hem of his t-shirt, his face a careful mask. He nods once, almost imperceptibly.

"The guest house is yours whenever you want it," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "Any time, no notice needed."

Camila looks up at me, something like relief crossing her face. "Thank you, Pope."

She presses a kiss to Lennon's cheek, whispering something in Spanish that makes his lips twitch almost into a smile. When she rises, Lennon's hand catches hers, holding on for three extra seconds before releasing.

My chest tightens watching him track her movement across the room like a compass finding north.

Ms. Black had flown home yesterday, her work finished once she’d inspected the house and the room Lennon would be staying in. Camila stayed the night so he wouldn’t feel abandoned, but this morning she had to leave for her own family.

The nanny doesn’t start until tomorrow—some mix-up with agency paperwork, apparently—which leaves me holding the bag for a full day. I already canceled two meetings to clear my calendar. Business I can handle. A seven-year-old boy? Not a chance in hell.

The front door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow echoes through the entire house. The driver waits outside to take her to the airport.

Suddenly, my sprawling beachfront property is too large, too empty, and far too quiet.

How does a seven-year-old boy take up so little physical space but fill a room with his silence?

I've closed billion-dollar deals, faced down boardrooms of hostile investors, and navigated my way out of poverty through sheer force of will. But standing here, watching my half-brother's shoulders hunch forward as he stares at the closed door, I'm completely lost.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Lennon's brown eyes, so like mine but softer, flicker up to my face then away again. His small chest rises with a careful breath.

I clear my throat. "Are you hungry?"

He shakes his head no.

"Thirsty?"

Another head shake.

This is going to be a long nine weeks if neither of us can string together actual sentences.

I clear my throat and gesture toward the back of the house. "Want to play on the swing set outside? Or, go swimming in the pool?”

I’d had a crew here before I moved in, turning the place into something that didn’t scream single guy with no kids.They swapped in age-appropriate bedding, filled shelves with books and toys, and built that swing set in the yard like it was nothing.

Luckily, the pool was already here.

Lennon looks at me, his expression guarded but curious. After a moment's consideration, he gives a small nod.

“Swing.”

I exhale. Progress. An affirmative nod is better than nothing.

He walks ahead of me through the kitchen, his small sneakers barely making a sound on the wood floors. I trail behind, watching as he gravitates naturally toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back patio. The ocean breeze drifts in, carrying the scent of salt and sunshine.

"Do you like the beach?" I ask, following him outside.

He shrugs, his eyes already fixed on the elaborate wooden play structure in the corner of the yard, situated in front of the guest house. It cost more than my first car, a rush-ordered marvel of cedar and rope.

"The swing set has a rock wall on the side," I point out. "And there's a basketball hoop over there if you're into that."

"Yeah," he says quietly. Two words in a matter of minutes constitue the entire words he’s spoken directly to me since arriving.

I sit on the wooden patio chair set up around a fire pit, not wanting to crowd him. He approaches the swing set with cautious interest, testing the plastic seat with one hand before climbing on. His feet dangle several inches above the ground.