Page 96 of Nine Week Nanny

I relish the rare luxury of waking in his space. That is, until I hear his angry voice outside and realize something is very wrong.

It comes sharp and clipped from beyond the open balcony doors, too harsh to ignore. Barefoot, I slip from the bed and pad closer, my pulse picking up as I catch sight of him through the glass.

He's pacing the length of the balcony in nothing but boxer shorts, shoulders taut, hair mussed from sleep. The phone is pressed to his ear, and fury rides every line of his body.

The words hit me like a blow. "She's the goddamned nanny. How is that anyone's fucking business?"

He's quiet. The person on the other end of the phone is obviously talking. He runs his hand through his hair and then leans on the railing with his elbows.

“Who I fuck… Jesus Christ. Goddammit… it’s fucking temporary.”

My stomach twists.The goddamned nanny. Who I fuck... The heat that floods my face isn't desire but humiliation.

Last night had felt like more, like real intimacy, like the possibility of something beyond my time here.

Now, listening to him spit those words into the phone, I realize I was making up a fantasy in my mind. I'm nothing more than the nanny, than a fuck.

Maris's warnings echo in my head, cruel in their accuracy.You'll get hurt. He'll toss you aside.

Shame and heartbreak climb my throat, choking me. I'm already falling for him, and he doesn't see me as anything more than something he will discard once this temporary nanny position is done.

I step back from the door, chest tight, my bare feet cold against the hardwood. I don't confront him. I can't, not now, not like this.

Instead, I gather my clothes from the floor and slip into my own room, wrapping myself in my sheets as if they could shield me from the truth pressing in.

The sheets in my room are stiff and cold against my skin. Nothing like the warm cocoon I'd slipped away from before I awoke.

I tug my tank top down and pull my sweatpants higher. Clothes that were comforting last night as we snuggled on the sofa, and today all wrong on my body.

My ears strain for every sound from the hall. Each creak of the house is magnified. I hear the balcony door slide shut, his footsteps returning to the bedroom. Then, drawers open and close.

"Come in here," I whisper to myself, hating how desperate I sound even in my own head. "Notice I'm gone. Tell me I misunderstood."

I wrap my arms around my middle, squeezing tight like I can physically hold myself together. My throat burns with unshed tears.

The quiet shuffling from his room continues. I recognize the closet door opening, hangers sliding, and the bathroom faucet running. What I don’t hear is anything to indicate that he's searching for me.

My phone blinks on the nightstand. I pick it up to see a text from Angela about taking the boys to the museum and then dropping them off at Seabreeze. I can't even look at it.

Heavy footsteps cross the upstairs landing, then the distinct, measured click of dress shoes on the wooden stair treads.

He's not coming toward my door. He's going downstairs, away from me.

"The goddamned nanny," I repeat his words aloud, barely audible. Each syllable cuts deeper than the last.

A cabinet door thuds closed in the kitchen below. The refrigerator opens and shuts. The coffee machine gurgles to life.

Then I hear Pope's voice again. It's low and controlled, nothing like the anger from before. Another business call.

He never looked for me.

The mattress seems to swallow me as I curl tighter into myself. If I'd meant anything at all beyond convenient sex, he would have clocked the empty space beside him and asked me why I left before the morning quickie we'd discussed last night before drifting off.

He would have wanted to know why I left. He would have come to find me.

Instead, he saw I was gone and carried on with his morning. I was just a warm body. Something to fuck until the nanny job ends.

Heat floods my face, shame burning from my chest to my hairline. My stomach hollows out, like someone's scooped everything important from inside me.