Page 42 of Nine Week Nanny

The kitchen gleams with midday light, everything scrubbed to a pristine shine. The faint scent of lemon cleaner hangs in the air, mingling with the salt breeze that follows us inside.

I pull the coloring book he started on yesterday from my tote bag and set it on the island alongside a small box of crayons.

"All clean?" I ask when Lennon returns, his arms still damp.

He nods, climbing onto the barstool. I slide the book in front of him, flipping pages until I find the one he was already working on.

"Why don't you finish coloring your page while I finish up? Or, if you like, you can find a new one."

Lennon selects a blue crayon without comment, his small fingers gripping it tightly. I turn to the refrigerator, pulling out containers of hummus, pre-cut vegetables, cheese, and crackers.

The quiet rhythm of his coloring fills the kitchen, punctuated only by the sound of distant waves and the soft scrape of my knife against the cutting board.

The front door opens with a click.

My spine stiffens, and my heart beats through my chest. Damn it, I thought he'd left. I’m not ready for this. Not him, not now.

His footsteps echo across the foyer, growing louder until he fills the doorway. My back remains turned, but I feelhis presence. How is that even possible? It's like a shift in barometric pressure.

"Hey, Len." His voice is awkward, too hearty. But I can tell he's trying. A pang of empathy shoots through me.

The quiet stretches, thick enough I can hear the crayon grinding harder into the page.

"What are you working on there? Can I see?"

The barstool scrapes against the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see Lennon slide the book slightly away.

More silence, but Pope is now sitting beside him at the bar.

I turn, plate in hand, stepping into the gap their silence creates. "Show him your octopus you colored yesterday. I love how you mixed the blues and greens with the reds and orange."

Pope's eyes snap to mine.

Oh.

My stomach drops, a rollercoaster plunge that sends goosebumps crawling up my neck. For a dangerous second, I'm back in his penthouse, skin to skin, his hands tangled in my hair, sliding down my waist.

The memory clashes with the present moment: this kitchen, this child, this impossible situation.

I blink hard, forcing air into my lungs.

Heat rushes down my spine, pooling low. My throat goes dry, and I grip the edge of the counter like it might steady me.

Lennon flips the page to the picture, but still doesn't say a word. I call that progress.

"Lunch is ready." I set the colorful plate in front of him.

Lennon picks up a cracker, nibbling its edge without looking up.

I wipe my suddenly damp palms against my thighs and turn back to Pope. His expression is neutral, but his shoulders are rigid beneath his perfectly fitted and pressed dress shirt. His navy and royal blue striped tie makes his dark eyes sparkle.

“Can I make you something to eat?” This is so odd. We are strangers but we aren’t. This is his house, not mine, but I feel rude not offering him lunch.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Do you have a moment? There's something I want to talk to you about."

Pope stands, putting his hands in his pants pockets, his expression guarded. "What is it?"