Page 6 of Nine Week Nanny

I keep my gaze steady, cataloguing details the way I would any potential deal. I note her posture, expression, her tells. She hasn’t seen me yet, which means I can take my time analyzing her.

She’s gripping her phone like she might crush it. All wrong for someone who’s supposed to be here to relax.

I tell myself I came here to think, not to get involved. But she’s the kind of variable I can't ignore. I could use a diversion tonight.

I wonder what her voice sounds like and whether those freckles continue across her shoulders.

I watch her for a few more moments. She drums her fingers against the bar top, shoulders tense despite the easy atmosphere around her.

The bartender catches my eye as he passes. I tilt my chin toward the woman.

"What's she drinking?"

He glances over. "That's our signature cocktail. It's basically an elderflower and basil gin & tonic. Want one?"

"Send her another on me."

He nods once and moves away, tossing a towel over his shoulder. I turn my glass slowly, causing the ice to shift against the crystal. I watch the bartender pour and then shake the silver shaker, finishing it off with a fresh sprig of basil. He sets the drink in front of her, murmurs something, then tips his head in my direction.

She turns, her hazel eyes finding mine across the dim space. Her expression shifts. At first, it's cautious, then curious, as recognition dawns.

A small, warm smile curves her mouth. It's not forced or performative. Just genuine enough to count as an unspoken welcome.

I haven't planned this, but I'm not one to ignore an opportunity when it presents itself. I pick up my glass and cross to the other end of the bar, taking my time. Her eyes track my approach, neither inviting nor discouraging.

I pause at the empty stool beside her, letting her meet my gaze before I slide onto it.

"Mind if I join you?"

God, I sound like every bad pickup line ever. Definitely not my usual MO.

"Sure." She glances at the stool, then at me. "Looks like the seat’s open. Thanks for the drink."

"Did I see you at Citrine earlier? I'm Pope, by the way."

She tilts her head, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I was wondering if I imagined that. Should I be concerned or flattered?"

She reaches out her hand. "Sloane. Nice to meet you."

“Concerned,” I say finally, meeting her eyes. “Pretty sure I saw you here the other night, too. Am I imagining that?”

"Now I’m concerned. I didn’t see you then. But yes, I was here the other night. Do you come here often?"

"Second time, actually. I’m guessing this is your go-to?"

"I just moved here three days ago. Been here exactly three times. Besides unpacking and Citrine, this is all I’ve seen of Palm Beach." She relaxes as she talks, her shoulders easing.

"Recent transplant from…?"

"Georgia. Augusta, specifically." Her accent brushes the edges of her words. It's light, but noticeable.

"Southern girl, then."

"Correction. I'm from Augusta, but I just moved here from upstate South Carolina. Finished grad school, took a job here. So, yes—Southern girl through and through."

Her smile tugs a little to the left, a crooked lilt that’s unexpectedly disarming.

"You’re not local, either, then,” she says, sipping from the stir stick like it’s a real straw.