Page 63 of Nine Week Nanny

The memory of our kiss in the playroom slides between us. It's hot and insistent. I can still feel her pressed against me, taste the mint on her breath.

Our eyes lock. The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying. The legal battle. The nine weeks she’s here. The fact that she’s Lennon’s nanny.

And still, it takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms and let the rest burn.

SEVENTEEN

Sloane

I stare at the ocean, half-listening to the waves crash against the sand in the distance.

The twilight air is heavy with everything we're not saying. Pope sits across from me, his presence both comforting and terrifying. My wine glass is still half-full, but I'm already feeling lightheaded without the alcohol.

I'd meant it about the job and Lennon, but there's more to that truth than I'm ready to admit.

I sneak a glance at Pope. His profile is sharp against the darkening sky, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his water glass.

The memory of those same fingers against my skin flashes through my mind.

This is ridiculous. I'm his employee. Lennon's caregiver. I can't be sitting here imagining him in that way.

Pope turns toward me, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "This is the part where we're supposed to pretend that kiss the other day didn't happen, isn't it? Just like we've pretended we were strangers when you came here to interview."

My heart stops, then races double-time. He's acknowledging it all in one fell swoop, bringing it into the open air between us.

"Is that what you want?" The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerable and hopeful. Please say no. Please say this isn't just me.

His expression shifts, playfulness giving way to something deeper, more serious. "No, it isn't."

The certainty in his voice sends a current through me. He reaches across the space between our chairs, his fingers brushing against mine where they rest on the armrest.

The contact is electric, simple, and devastating. I could pull away. I should pull away. This crosses every professional boundary I've ever set.

"Don't sleep with that man again." Maris' words blare through my brain.

Instead, I turn my hand palm-up and lace my fingers through his. A choice. A clear, conscious decision.

His fingers tighten in a gentle squeeze that feels like a question. Are you sure?

I squeeze back. Yes.

Pope leans forward, his free hand reaching up to cup my cheek. His palm is warm against my skin, his thumb stroking my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"Sloane," he whispers, my name sounding different in his mouth than it ever has before.

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes briefly. This is crazy and complicated and probably a terrible idea. But it also feels like stepping into a room I didn't know I was looking for and finding everything exactly where it should be.

Pope moves closer, the space between us shrinking until his breath sends shivers along my skin, and his lips are against mine. His hand still holds mine, an anchor in the storm of sensation.

And just like that, the world spins away. This kiss is nothing like our first night. There's no desperate race against time, no fumbling urgency, no rough meeting between strangers.

This is slow, deliberate, and more intimate in every way.

He pulls me to him, guiding me to his lap. My free hand slides up his chest to rest against his heartbeat. It pounds under my palm, a steady rhythm that matches my own.

His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of mint and something uniquely him. I could drown in this kiss and never want for air.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless. Pope's eyes have darkened, the intensity in them making my entire body tremble.