Page 53 of Nine Week Nanny

She shifts her weight, and I swear she sways slightly toward me before catching herself.

“Why are you up wandering around at two in the morning?” She asks me, cutting the tension.

“I thought I heard something and came down for water.”

Her voice is hushed, a little breathless. Mine comes out lower, rougher than usual. I hear it. She hears it. The awareness hangs between us like static.

I’m suddenly conscious of my bare chest, of how close she’s standing. My mind betrays me, flashing with the thought oftugging her against me, of how thin cotton would slide across my skin before giving way to the heat of her body.

Fuck. No. That can’t happen.

But the air between us hums. My gaze drops to her mouth just as her lips part.

She notices. I catch the flicker in her eyes, the sharp inhale.

“I should—” Her hand lifts halfway, then falters.

“Yeah.”

Neither of us moves. The silence stretches. A heartbeat. Two. The weight of what we don’t say presses down harder than words ever could.

“Goodnight, Pope,” she whispers, and the sound of my name on her lips is a punch straight to the gut.

She steps past me. Just the faintest brush of her shoulder against mine, but it burns. My whole body locks tight, fighting the instinct to turn, to catch, to take.

Her footsteps fade. The soft click of her door feels louder than a slammed one.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, every muscle wound so tight I’m afraid I might combust.

Sleep is going to be a long time coming tonight.

I stepinto the Good Samaritan boardroom at precisely eight-fifteen, with the portfolio in hand. The room falls quiet as I enter. Exactly as it should.

"Good morning." My voice carries the practiced neutrality I've spent years perfecting. Not cold, not warm. Just authoritative.

The glossy mahogany table stretches before me, ringed with suits made up of hospital administrators, legal counsel, and twokey investors. Every face bears that mixture of wariness and anticipation I've come to recognize.

I set my folders down and take my position at the head of the table. The projector hums to life.

"Let's begin with the financials."

My presentation flows like clockwork. Slides advance in perfect rhythm with my words. Numbers dance across the screen.

I go over profit margins, operating costs, and revenue projections. I know them by heart. They're as familiar to me as my own reflection.

"The transition to a membership model requires three distinct phases."

I pause, taking a sip of ice water. The cool liquid slides down my throat, washing away the lingering fatigue from last night's encounter in the hallway that still sticks with me like a nagging deja vu.

The memory of Sloane's wide eyes in the darkness tries to surface. I push it back down where it belongs.

Not here. Not now.

"Phase one focuses on infrastructure and staffing adjustments."

The boardroom air is crisp against my skin. My navy suit with subtle pinstripes sits perfectly across my shoulders. Everything in its place. Everyone in their role.

This is where I make sense, where the world works according to definable rules. More importantly, this is where I understand the game and all its pieces.