Page 49 of Nine Week Nanny

"Gross."

Three containers of yogurt join the milk, along with a wilted bag of spinach and some suspicious-looking strawberries. The trash can fills quickly as I purge evidence of my optimistic first shopping trip.

A stack of mail sits untouched on the counter, most of it addressed to "Current Resident." I flip through the envelopes. There are credit card offers, coupons for local businesses, and a welcome packet from the property management company. Nothing that can't wait.

My phone buzzes. A text from Pope.

Lennon okay at Seabreeze?

I type back.

Settled in fine. Shark teeth were the winning ticket.

Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.

Good. Thanks.

That's it. All business, as it should be.

I strip off my clothes as I walk to the bathroom, leaving them in a trail behind me. The shower takes forever to heat up, but when it finally does, I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. The hot water washes away the salt and sand that somehow get everywhere when you live on the beach.

I lather on the shampoo, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent. I make a mental note to bring the bottle with me back to Pope's. The shampoo provided is nice, but I like my scent.

My mind drifts to Lennon's careful steps into Seabreeze, how he didn't look back after the shark teeth girl appeared. A warmth runs through me.

He's not your kid, I remind myself as I rinse out the soap from my hair.

I towel off and pull on a simple black one-piece swimsuit that I'd packed in my overnight bag. Grabbing a dog-eared paperback thriller and my phone, I head down to the complex's pool.

The Florida sun beats down mercilessly. The pool area is deserted, which is nice. Everyone with sense is either at work or inside with air conditioning. Perfect.

I settle into a lounge chair, adjusting the back to a half-recline. The water gleams turquoise, unnaturally bright against the concrete surround. It's peaceful but eerily quiet compared to the constant rhythm of waves at Pope's beach house.

Everything about this place feels like a life interrupted, a bookmark stuck between chapters. Meanwhile, I've been living in someone else's story for days.

My phone buzzes against my stomach. Maris's name lights up the screen.

I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. "Girl, have I got some juice for you."

"Hello to you, too." Maris's laugh ripples through the speaker. "What's this news? Give it to me."

"Pope isn't Lennon's father. He's his half-brother." I shift on the lounge chair, the vinyl sticking to my damp skin. The heat here is more oppressive than at Pope's beachfront property, the chlorine scent sharp in my nostrils compared to the salt air I've grown used to.

"Wait, what?" Maris's voice rises an octave. "Are you serious right now? How did you miss this?"

"I guess my mind just came up with the story. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm almost positive the posting for the job said single dad, but I guess that could be ambiguous. Anyway, he told me last night, and my jaw almost hit the concrete."

"This is wild. So, what's the deal?"

"I know, right?" I lower my voice as a couple emerges from the neighboring unit, their conversation drifting across the pooldeck. "I don't know much more than that. Apparently, they share a father, and the father isn't stellar, so he's with Pope temporarily until the mom's cousin, Camila, I told you about her, right?"

"Yes, Camila!"

"Right. Camila plans to adopt him, but I think the timing didn't work. Hence, the nine weeks."

"Wow. This all just got a whole lot more interesting. He's gone from a player jerk to a white knight. Who does that?"

I trace a water droplet sliding down my water bottle. "Someone with a strong sense of responsibility, I guess. It actually makes more sense now why he seems so uncertain around Lennon."