Page 5 of Nine Week Nanny

“Good. Meet me at Good Samaritan on Monday at eight. Bring the deck. I want numbers, not a sales pitch.”

A warm gust curls off the ocean and through the terrace. I pinch the bridge of my nose, already calculating the Monday agenda

“Copy. Do you want me to bring anything else?”

"I want to understand the membership tiers we plan to implement. Has the board finalized that?" I ask.

"Three levels as you suggested. Platinum at seventy-five thousand annually, Gold at forty, Silver at twenty-five.Projections show we'll hit capacity on Platinum within eight months."

I trace a finger along the condensation on my glass. "Physician compensation?"

"Contract revisions ready for your signature. Performance bonuses will be tied to patient retention and satisfaction scores. The cardiologists are pushing back. And like I said, this nursing thing.”

"Let the cardiologists push back. Where else are they going to get those numbers? The concierge market here is underserved and over-funded. As for the nurses, they will complain. They always do. And then they’ll fall in line.”

Terrence passes, and I slide my card into his path. He takes it without breaking stride, the polished edge of the black folder tucked under his arm. His eyebrow ticks up in a silent question. I give a small shake of my head.

“ How’s the hotel?” Caleb asks in my ear.

“It works,” I say, watching a couple drift toward the railing with champagne flutes. “I’m meeting with the realtor this weekend to find a condo or something furnished. I’ve been too busy this week to worry about it.”

“Denver office is asking when you’re back.”

The truth is, there’s nothing pulling me back there except the office. There hasn’t been for a long time. I lean back, stretching one leg out under the table, the salt air threading through the heat.

“I’ll be in town at some point, but you can let everyone know I plan to be here a minimum of eighteen months.”

“Enjoy the beach while we freeze our asses off out here.”

A smile ghosts across my mouth. “I’m not sure how much enjoyment will be going down, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll reach out on Sunday if we don’t talk before. Good luck with the house search.”

I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket. The terrace is filling, and everything is louder now. Conversations stack over the live music. I take my glass, the cold sweating against my palm, and move to an open stool at the bar.

The bartender slides a coaster across the polished wood. “New in town?”

I finish the last sip of my drink as the ice clinks against the crystal. “Relocated temporarily for business. I'll be here at least a year, possibly two.”

“From?”

“Denver.”

He polishes a glass with practiced efficiency. "Most people come here to escape work. Can I get you another?”

"I'm not most people. Yes. Perrier with a lime.”

Movement to my right catches my eye. A flash of golden-brown hair across the terrace pulls me in. Distractions are the reason I keep my life clean and contained. This one won't let me look away, though.

It's the woman from Citrine this morning.

She's half-turned away, shoulders tense as she scans the horizon. Same freckles across her nose, same curve to her hips, but dressed differently now. She's got on dark, fitted jeans and a simple black top. Her hair is down now, flowing over her shoulder.

Interesting. Twice in one day.

My pulse quickens, a quick surge before I reel it in.

The bartender slides me a fresh glass. I take a sip, the fizz sharp against my tongue, cleaner than the cocktails swirling around us. Cleaner is the point.