Page 43 of Nine Week Nanny

I kneel beside Lennon's stool, my face level with his. "Hey buddy, I need to talk about some grown-up stuff for a minute. Can you finish your lunch while we step into the living room? We'll be right there where you can see us."

Lennon's eyes flick to mine before returning to his plate. He gives a barely perceptible nod.

I set the wooden timer cube on the counter, turning the face to fifteen minutes. "When this dings, we'll be done, okay? But if you need me before then, just come get me."

He gives me a single nod and then swipes a baby carrot in the hummus and then into his mouth. I take that as permission to step away.

Wiping my damp palms on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle, I straighten and tilt my head toward the adjacent room. Pope follows, his footsteps heavy behind me.

The kitchen opens into the living room, marble shifting to immaculate hardwood. We’re close enough for Lennon to see us, far enough that lowered voices will keep him from catching every word.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my jean shorts. “I found a program for Lennon I wanted to talk to you about.”

Pope’s gaze sharpens. “What kind of program?”

“A few hours in the afternoons. It would be a change of scenery, space for him to be outside, to connect with nature, towork through things.” I don’t say grief aloud, though it hangs between us.

His jaw ticks. “I’m not sure I understand why you took it upon yourself. We have this covered.”

We?

My chin lifts. “I did something similar during grad school. It made me wonder if there was an option here, too. This isn’t busy work. It would give him something constructive, and it fills that four-hour gap in a way that could actually help him.”

“The agency secured someone today,” he says, voice clipped. “Four hours weekday afternoons, plus Saturday and Sunday. You’ll handle mornings until lunch, evenings, and nights. As we discussed.”

My jaw tightens. I step in, careful but firm. “With all due respect, this is the better option. It’s called Seabreeze Nature Enrichment. I think you should take a look at it before you decide.”

He watches me, arms folded across his chest, shoulders broad and rigid. “Email it to me. I’ll run it by Camila.”

The name hits like cold water. Camila. Not him. Someone else is steering everything.

I keep my voice level. “To be clear, this isn’t school. No classrooms, no worksheets. It’s tide pools and marsh walks. Learning to care for things that are alive. He'll practice belonging, without pressure.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. My skin heats beneath it, memories of that night flashing unbidden.

I swallow. “My suggestion, if you're open to it, is to give it a try. A week, a day. Just see how he responds.”

He studies me as if he’s weighing the risk of even entertaining this. Then, without a word, he turns back toward the kitchen.

The rejection hits sharper than if he’d said no.

TWELVE

Pope

The dishwasher's persistent hum fills the kitchen, punctuated by the soft rhythm of waves breaking outside. I lean against the counter, scrolling through work emails on my phone, when footsteps pull my attention up.

Sloane freezes in the doorway, clearly not expecting to find me here. Her hair's damp at the edges, face scrubbed clean. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.

I should leave, mumble something about a conference call, and retreat to my office. Instead, I set my phone down.

"Day's over. Glass?" I gesture to the bottle of Cabernet sitting unopened on the counter. The realtor left it here for me, and I don't drink wine.

She hesitates, then nods. "Sure."

I uncork it, grab a wine glass from the cabinet, and pour, sliding the glass across the counter to her. Our fingers don't touch in the exchange, but it wouldn't matter if they did. This is just courtesy between colleagues. Professional appreciation.

"The visual timer worked," I say, keeping my voice even. "And the two dinner options. Smart moves. You're good at this."