Page 46 of Nine Week Nanny

“Brother,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Lennon calls me Pope. When he talks to me, that is. I’m not his father. I’m his half-brother.”

“Oh.” Her hand stills on the monitor. “I misunderstood. I apologize.”

The ocean crashes against the shore, steady, filling the silence. I breathe it in before I go on.

“Camila, Lennon's mother’s cousin, wants to adopt him once the court allows. For now, it’s me. Speaking of, is it okay if I leave Camila's number for you to call with Lennon? She likes to talk to him daily.”

Her eyes search mine. “Of course, please leave her number. We can make that part of our daily routine.”

I shrug, tracing the condensation on my glass. My jaw tightens. “I won’t let Lennon go through what I did.”

“That’s very admirable.”

Something in her gaze shifts. The professionalism slips, replaced by something steadier. Respect, warmth, even. It brushes against a part of me I don’t usually let anyone near.

“It’s what anyone would do,” I mutter, looking away.

“No.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “It’s not.”

I risk meeting her eyes again. Something electric passes between us. It's not just attraction, though that's there too, but a deeper understanding. It's almost a recognition.

My hand grips the arm of the chair to keep from reaching for her. The air between us is charged, making it dangerous with possibility. She shifts in her seat, and I wonder if she feels it too.

"Pope, I?—"

A rustling sound comes from the monitor. Lennon turns in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. We both freeze, then she brings it to her ear to listen more carefully.

"I should check on him," she says, rising to her feet.

"Right." I stand too quickly, our glasses nearly colliding as we both reach for them. "I have early calls tomorrow anyway."

The sliding door clicks shut behind Sloane. I watch her figure disappear through the house and out of sight.

I sit back down, enjoying the mild night for a few more minutes, letting the ocean’s rhythm compete with the noise in my head. A week ago, I would have laughed if anyone told me this would be my life. I came to Palm Beach to oversee a hospital transition, not to become guardian of a child I barely know, hire a live-in nanny I happened to have slept with, and spend my evenings debating the merits of nature programs.

The absurdity of it all breaks loose in my chest, and I laugh into the night air, short and sharp.

I walk back to the house, turning off the back light and locking the door.

Standing alone in the kitchen, the ocean's persistent rhythm is audible even through the closed door. None of it drowns out the noise of my thoughts.

I grab the wine bottle and my glass, draining the last drops of my water.

The glass is cool against my palm as I trace its rim with my thumb, replaying Sloane's expression when she realized I wasn't Lennon's father. The way her eyes widened, then softened with something beyond professional interest.

"Fuck," I mutter, setting the glass down a little too hard on the stone countertop.

My body betrays me, heat coursing through my veins at the memory of her skin under my hands. The curve of her hip, the soft gasp when I?—

My phone buzzes against my ass, vibrating in my back pocket. I pull it out, squinting at the screen.

Val.

I consider letting it go to voicemail, but she'd just keep calling. Valerie Carrigan doesn't take silence for an answer.