Chapter 1 Harper
The elevator doors try to eat my tote bag at the exact same moment someone on the fiftieth floor starts screaming.
Not a normal scream either. Not an “I spilled coffee on my blouse” scream or an “Excel deleted my will to live” scream. This is a full-bodied, tiny-human banshee wail that echoes down the polished marble corridor of Blackwell Tower like the building itself has decided to file a complaint.
I yank my tote free with one hand, clutch my phone with the other, and stumble out of the elevator in shoes that were absolutely not designed for sprinting through billionaire territory.
“Harper James?” a woman snaps.
I look up.
A brunette in a charcoal pencil skirt barrels toward me with a tablet tucked under one arm, a phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, and the hollow-eyed expression of someone who has already lived three business days before nine in the morning.
“That’s me,” I say, breathless. “Emergency nanny. Temporary miracle worker. Occasional juice-box negotiator.”
Her eyes flick down my body—to my floral wrap dress, denim jacket, bright yellow tote bag, and the curl currently stuck to my lip gloss—then back to my face. I can practically hear her recalculating her faith in humanity.
“You’re late.”
“I’m technically early if we go by the clock in the lobby.”
“The lobby clock is art.”
“Rich people make everything confusing.”
Her mouth twitches. Once. Barely. Then the scream rises again from somewhere beyond a set of glass doors, and whatever tiny spark of humor she had dies a corporate death.
“Do you have references?” she asks, already turning and walking fast enough that I have to half jog to keep up.
“Yes.”
“Certifications?”
“Yes.”
“Experience with high-profile families?”
I tighten my grip on my tote strap.
Here is the thing: I have experience with toddlers who hide peas in heating vents, twins who stage synchronized bedtime coups, and one six-year-old who once convinced me his pet turtle needed emotional support pancakes. I have experience with tired parents, sticky hands, big feelings, and small shoes kicked under couches. What I do not have is experience with billionaire-kid emergencies in towers where the receptionist looks like she has a security clearance and the walls probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
But my rent is due. My childcare program fund is a sad little spreadsheet with more dreams than dollars. And when Tessa Lane—according to the frantic text from the agency—begs for someone calm, competent, and available immediately, I say yes before fear can put on pants.
So I lift my chin and give the only answer that gets women like me through doors designed to keep us out.
“I’m totally qualified for billionaire-kid emergencies.”
Tessa shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Good. Because he has fired four nannies in eleven days, refused breakfast, locked a math tutor in the media room, and is currently threatening to climb into a ventilation shaft.”
I blink. “The child or the billionaire?”
“The child.”
“Shame. I was hoping for a warm-up round.”
This time, Tessa’s laugh escapes before she can stop it. It is tiny and cracked around the edges, but real. Then her phone buzzes again, and she flinches like it bit her.
“Yes,” she says into it. “I found her. No, I know. I know. I’m bringing her in now.”
She ends the call and stops so abruptly I nearly run into her back.
We stand in front of double doors made of dark wood and frosted glass. Behind them, voices overlap—low male fury, a woman’s muffled crying, the distant thump of something expensive hitting something even more expensive.
My stomach dips.
Tessa turns to me, and for the first time, I see past the assistant armor. She is not just irritated. She is desperate.
“Listen carefully,” she says. “Mr. Blackwell is not warm. He is not patient. He does not like surprises, explanations, inefficiency, or people who waste his time.”
“Great,” I mutter. “So golden retriever energy is out.”
“He loves his son.” Her voice sharpens. “That is the only thing you need to understand.”
Before I can answer, the scream cuts off.
The silence afterward is worse.
Tessa goes pale.
Then she grabs my wrist, shoves open the doors, and pulls me straight into the center of the crisis.
The first thing I see is a woman crying into a stack of laminated schedules.
Not delicate crying. Not tasteful, workplace-appropriate misting. She is sitting on a white leather sofa with her mascara making a break for her jawline while a color-coded calendar the size of a small area rug lies across the coffee table in front of her. Half the sticky notes have been ripped off and scattered like expensive confetti.
The second thing I see is a toy dinosaur wedged inside a crystal vase.
The third thing I see is Archer Blackwell.
And every ounce of air leaves my body.
He stands behind a massive black desk with one hand braced on the surface and the other wrapped around a phone he looks moments away from crushing. He is taller than memory. Broader, somehow. Dark suit, white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that have absolutely no business existing in a room where people are discussing childcare logistics.
His hair is darker than I remember too, or maybe the office just makes everything look sharper—black glass, steel edges, winter light slicing through floor-to-ceiling windows. He looks carved out of money and bad decisions.
My bad decision.
Eight months vanish.
One crowded hotel bar. One rainstorm rattling the windows. One stranger with a voice like smoke asking if the seat beside me is taken. One night of forgetting every practical thing I know about caution, consequences, and men who look like they were custom-built to ruin a woman’s common sense.
My pulse jumps into my throat.
No.
Absolutely not.
The universe does not get to do this to me before coffee.
Archer looks up.
For one suspended second, his gaze sweeps over Tessa, the crying woman, my tote bag, my dress, my face—businesslike, irritated, already dismissing whatever inconvenience has just been dragged into his office.
Then his eyes lock on mine.
The room changes.
Not visibly. The crying woman keeps crying. Somewhere beyond another closed door, a child gives a furious little shout. Tessa starts speaking, words tumbling fast and professional.
“Mr. Blackwell, this is Harper James from the agency. She was the only qualified emergency placement available on short notice, and I’ve confirmed her references are—”
Archer does not blink.
Neither do I.
His face goes perfectly still. Not blank. Worse. Controlled. Like someone has sealed an explosion behind his ribs and dared the world to notice.
My skin remembers him before my brain catches up. The heat of his hand at my waist. The scrape of his jaw near my ear. The way he looked at me like I was not a cheerful girl in a thrifted dress pretending not to worry about her bank account, but something rare. Wanted. Chosen.
Then morning came.
I left my number on hotel stationery, kissed his sleeping shoulder like an idiot, and walked out before I could become the kind of woman who waits by a phone.
He never called.
Of course, he never called.
Men like him do not call women like me. They return to towers like this and let the night become a pleasant little mistake with curves and a forgettable name.
Except Archer Blackwell does not look like a man remembering a mistake.
He looks furious.
“Tessa,” he says, voice low enough to make the glass walls feel fragile, “leave us.”
Tessa freezes. “Sir, Milo is still in the private lounge, and the agency said—”
“Now.”
The crying woman stands so quickly the laminated schedule slides off her lap. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Blackwell, I really tried, but he said I was using a preschool voice, and then he threw the dinosaur, and I don’t think I’m emotionally suited to—”
“Go,” Archer says, without looking away from me.
Everyone moves.
Tessa hesitates just long enough to shoot me a look that says good luck, Godspeed, and please don’t sue us, then ushers the crying woman out. The doors close behind them with a soft, expensive click.
Silence lands.
I stand in the middle of Archer Blackwell’s office with my yellow tote bag digging into my shoulder and my heart behaving like it wants to escape through my mouth.
He comes around the desk slowly.
Every step is controlled. Measured. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with violence and everything to do with the fact that my body still knows exactly how his felt against mine.
He stops several feet away.
Too close for a stranger.
Too far for a man who once knew the sound I make when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second.
My stomach flips. Traitor.
Then his gaze hardens.
“Harper James,” he says.
Hearing my name in that voice should be illegal.
I force my chin up. “Archer Blackwell.”
His jaw flexes.
So he remembers.
For three whole seconds, neither of us says anything.
Which is impressive, because I am rarely silent unless I’m asleep, eating something that deserves reverence, or actively plotting revenge.
Archer breaks first.
Not with an apology. Not with surprise. Not with anything remotely human enough to make this easier.
He turns back toward his desk, picks up a file folder, and flips it open like I am an acquisition proposal he intends to reject by lunch.
“You’re with BrightStart Domestic Staffing,” he says.
My eyebrows climb. “Good morning to you too.”
His eyes lift. Cold gray. Devastating. Completely unfair. “Are you?”
“With BrightStart? Yes.”
“You’ve been with them how long?”
“Six months.”
“That isn’t long.”
“Neither was your last nanny’s career here, from what I hear, so maybe we’re all doing our best.”
His gaze sharpens.
My mouth, which has apparently chosen death, keeps going. “Sorry. Nerves. They come out as sarcasm. Or hives. Today you got lucky.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He looks back at the folder. “CPR certified.”
“Yes.”
“Early childhood training.”
“Yes.”
“References from three families.”
“Yes.”
“No long-term placements with high-net-worth clients.”
I cross my arms, then immediately uncross them because the motion makes my tote slide down my shoulder and nearly take out a glass sculpture that probably costs more than my car.
“I work with children, Mr. Blackwell. Their net worth is usually measured in missing socks, cracker crumbs, and emotional warfare.”
His stare does not warm. “My son is not a résumé experiment.”
There it is.
The first real thing he has said.
It lands harder than his suspicion, because beneath the ice is fear. Buried deep. Locked down. But there. The office is spotless, expensive, controlled to the inch, and yet there is a dinosaur stuck in a vase and a child behind a door who has apparently declared war on the ventilation system.
Archer Blackwell may run a kingdom, but Milo is the one place he does not know how to win.
I soften despite myself.
“I’m not here to experiment on your son,” I say. “I’m here because your assistant called an agency in a panic and someone decided I was the least terrifying option available.”
“You expect me to find that reassuring?”
“No. I expect you to find it honest.”
His jaw works once.
A muffled thump comes from the room beyond the office. Then a child’s voice, small and furious, shouts, “I said I don’t WANT her!”
My heart gives an inconvenient little twist.
Archer’s entire body goes still, but his eyes flick toward the door before he can stop them. Just once. Fast. Controlled.
Father first. Tyrant second.
Interesting.
He returns his attention to me like he resents me for noticing. “You will not raise your voice at him.”
“I don’t yell at children.”
“You will not bribe him with sugar.”
“Depends. Are we calling fruit snacks sugar or emotional currency?”
“Miss James.”
“Oh, we’re Miss James now.” I smile brightly, because apparently I have decided to poke the billionaire bear until it eats me. “Very professional. Should I call you Mr. Blackwell, or is ‘man who vanished after breakfast’ too informal for the office?”
Silence detonates.
The words are out before I can drag them back by their ankles.
Archer’s eyes darken.
There. A crack in the marble.
He steps closer, and the air changes again. Warmer. Tighter. My pulse remembers too much.
“I vanished?” he asks softly.
Dangerously.
My throat goes dry, but I refuse to retreat. “You didn’t call.”
Something flashes across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
Disbelief.
Then anger, controlled so tightly it looks like calm.
“You left,” he says.
I laugh once, but there is no humor in it. “Yes. Because adults are allowed to leave hotel rooms after one-night stands. Especially when they leave their number behind.”
His expression turns unreadable.
The door behind him rattles.
A small voice yells, “I’m not coming out until everyone stops lying!”
The words slice through the heat between us.
Archer closes his eyes for half a beat, and when he opens them, the man from the hotel is gone. The CEO is back. The father is barely holding.
He snaps the folder shut.
“This conversation is not over,” he says.
“Feels like a theme with you.”
His gaze pins me in place. “My son has had four strangers disappoint him in less than two weeks. If you walk through that door, you do not get to be charming and temporary. You do not get to make promises because they make you feel kind. You do not get to leave wreckage behind because this job became inconvenient.”
The accusation hits too close to places he has no right touching.
My smile disappears.
“I don’t make promises to children unless I mean them.”
For the first time, Archer looks at me like he is not assessing my qualifications.
He is assessing my soul.
Then another crash comes from the private lounge, followed by a horrified, tiny gasp.
Archer turns toward the door.
I am already moving.
“Don’t,” Archer says.
Which is adorable, really. Not the man. The assumption that I am the sort of woman who hears don’t and takes it as a command instead of background noise.
I reach the private lounge door before he does and pause with my hand on the knob. Not because he told me to. Because the quiet on the other side has gone too sharp.
Children are loud when they are angry. Louder when they are scared. Silent when something inside them has tipped too far.
I turn the knob slowly.
The room beyond is bigger than my entire apartment and about one-tenth as welcoming. Gray sectional. Abstract art. Shelves lined with books arranged by height instead of love. A low table sits crooked on a plush rug, one corner covered in a glittering spill of water and vase shards.
And in the far corner, half-hidden behind a leather armchair, is Milo Blackwell.
He is smaller than I expect.
Maybe seven. Maybe eight. Dark hair flopping over his forehead, one sock on, one sock missing, knees hugged to his chest like he can make himself disappear if he squeezes tight enough. His cheeks are blotchy. His eyes are wet and furious.
There is a tiny red line across his palm.
Archer sees it at the same time I do.
“Milo.” His voice changes completely—lower, rougher, stripped of boardroom steel. He steps forward. “Let me see your hand.”
Milo jerks back. “No.”
Archer stops like he has hit glass.
I feel it then, the whole sad shape of the room. A terrified father who only knows how to command. A grieving little boy who has learned that adults leave or panic or lie. A luxury lounge full of sharp edges and nobody speaking the right language.
So I sink to the floor.
Not near Milo. Several feet away, because cornered animals and cornered children both deserve exits.
“Wow,” I say, looking at the shattered vase. “That dinosaur really had a dramatic final battle.”
Milo blinks at me.
Behind me, Archer goes very still.
I keep my attention on the dinosaur lying beside the table, its plastic green tail poking through the wreckage like a fallen warrior. “Was this a planned attack, or did he act alone?”
Milo’s lower lip trembles. He tries to look offended, but curiosity sneaks in first. “He’s not alone.”
“No?”
“He has a team.”
“Of course he does. No serious dinosaur commits vase crimes without backup.”
A tiny sound escapes him.
Not a laugh exactly. More like his body remembers laughing exists and is startled by it.
I pretend not to notice. Kids hate being caught feeling better before they are done being mad.
I set my tote beside me and rummage through it. “Okay, I need to be honest with you. I was told this was a nanny emergency, but no one mentioned dinosaur warfare. That feels like a pretty major omission.”
Milo’s eyes track my hand as I pull out a small packet of cartoon bandages, a travel pack of wipes, and a granola bar that has been living in my bag long enough to develop its own legal rights.
“I’m not having breakfast,” he says.
“Bold of you to assume this granola bar is breakfast. It may be a fossil.”
His mouth twitches.
There. Another crack.
I hold up the bandages. “I have sharks, astronauts, or little yellow ducks. I’m going to warn you right now, the ducks have an attitude problem.”
Milo looks down at his hand, then back at me. “It’s not bad.”
“I believe you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“I believe that too.” I place the wipes and bandages on the rug between us, close enough for him to reach if he wants, far enough that he does not have to. “But sometimes help can sit nearby and mind its business.”
His gaze flicks past me to Archer.
Whatever softening had started in Milo’s face closes at once.
“You’re going to make her leave too,” he says.
The words are not loud.
They do not need to be.
Archer’s face goes pale beneath the controlled mask. It is the first time I have seen him look truly hit. Not irritated. Not angry. Hit.
“I’m not making anyone leave,” he says.
Milo’s chin wobbles. “You always do.”
The room goes painfully still.
I do not look at Archer. This is not my wound to stare at. Instead, I pick up the duck bandage and inspect it with grave seriousness.
“For the record,” I say, “I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”
Milo’s eyes snap to me.
Archer’s do too.
Good. Now everyone is listening.
“I don’t make decisions about kids without talking to the kid,” I continue. “That seems rude. You’re the one who would have to put up with me.”
Milo studies me like I am a math problem he does not trust.
“You’re a nanny.”
“Allegedly.”
“Nannies use baby voices.”
“I would rather lick this rug.”
A startled laugh bursts out of him.
It is small. Rusty. Beautiful.
Archer inhales behind me like the sound hurts.
Milo crawls forward one careful inch, then another. He grabs the duck bandage, frowns at it, and holds out his scraped palm without looking at his father.
I clean the cut gently. He watches my hands the whole time.
“You’re not going to tell me it doesn’t hurt?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s annoying. If it hurts, it hurts. The trick is not letting a tiny villain duck see fear.”
This time, he really laughs.
And Archer Blackwell, billionaire tyrant, nightmare one-night stand, professional destroyer of my emotional equilibrium, looks at me like I have just handed him back the sun.
The look is gone almost as soon as it appears.
Archer shutters it so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. One blink, and the man who looked like he might fall to his knees from the sound of his son’s laugh becomes Mr. Blackwell again—expensive, unreadable, and built entirely out of bad moods and trust issues.
Milo, thankfully, is too busy examining the duck bandage on his palm to notice.
“He looks mean,” Milo says.
“The duck?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“He has a mortgage.”
Milo nods like this explains everything. “Can he fight the dinosaur team?”
“I don’t know. He’s small, but he has rage.”
Milo’s smile flickers, then fades as his gaze shifts to his father. He tucks his injured hand against his chest like he expects someone to take the bandage back.
“Is she leaving now?” he asks.
The question hits the floor between us and breaks something quiet.
Archer’s throat moves. “Milo—”
“I asked her.”
There is so much hurt in those three little words that I want to wrap this boy in every soft blanket money can buy, then fight everyone who ever made him believe grown-ups are revolving doors.
I sit back on my heels, keeping my voice easy. “I haven’t been officially hired.”
Milo looks horrified by this technicality. “Why not?”
“Because your dad has the hiring face of a man deciding whether I’m a nanny or an international jewel thief.”
Milo glances at Archer. “That’s just his face.”
A sound comes from Archer.
It is not quite a laugh. More like one tried to escape and he murdered it out of habit.
I should not like it.
I absolutely like it.
“Fair,” I say.
Milo scoots closer, still careful, still testing. “If you stay, do you make people eat mushy eggs?”
“Never. I respect breakfast boundaries.”
“Do you use preschool voice?”
“Only on tax forms and men who say calm down.”
Milo considers this, then looks at Archer with the solemn authority of a tiny judge. “I want her.”
My heart squeezes once, hard.
Archer goes motionless.
Not because he is surprised, I think, but because those three words are the kind of thing a desperate father wants too badly. Hope is dangerous when you have already lost enough.
“Milo,” he says carefully, “Miss James is here for an interview.”
“No.” Milo’s brows pinch. “She’s here because everybody else talks like I’m broken.”
Oh.
I forget how to breathe for a second.
Archer’s face does something complicated and painful. “You are not broken.”
Milo looks down at his duck bandage. “Then why does everyone whisper?”
Silence fills the room again, but this one is different. Less sharp. More fragile.
I want to say something. I want to make a joke, because that is what I do when pain gets too close, but even I know some moments do not need glitter thrown over them.
Archer crosses the room slowly and lowers himself into a crouch a few feet from Milo. The movement looks awkward on him, like kings are not taught how to kneel.
“People whisper,” he says, voice rough, “because people are cowards when they don’t know how to help.”
Milo’s eyes lift.
Archer holds his gaze. “You are not broken.”
Milo swallows. “Can Harper stay?”
My name in his small voice is a trapdoor under my ribs.
Archer looks at me then.
Really looks.
The room tightens around us, all glass and marble and unfinished history. I can see the calculation in his eyes, the suspicion, the memory. I can also see the thing he is trying not to show: the way Milo’s laugh has changed the math.
I stand because my knees are starting to ache and because I need height for whatever happens next.
“I should be clear,” I say, brushing imaginary lint from my dress. “I’m excellent with children, mediocre with billionaires, and allergic to being talked down to. If those are dealbreakers, now is a great time to return me to the agency before I bond with the furniture.”
Archer rises too.
He is too tall. Too close. Too much memory wrapped in a suit.
“You have conditions?” he asks.
“I have standards.”
His eyes flash. “So do I.”
“I noticed. They’re very shiny.”
Milo snorts behind me.
Archer’s gaze flicks to his son, then back to me. Something settles in his expression. A decision. A dangerous one.
“You will follow the household schedule,” he says.
“Reasonable.”
“You will coordinate with Tessa for transportation, meals, school pickup, and security protocol.”
“Less fun, but fine.”
“You will not speak to the press.”
That one makes me blink. “Was I planning to?”
“No.” His voice goes colder. “But they may plan to speak to you.”
A small chill slips down my spine, gone before I can name it.
Archer steps closer, lowering his voice so Milo cannot hear. “And you will not disappear without notice.”
There it is. The old hurt, dressed up as a workplace rule.
My fingers tighten around my tote strap. “Funny. I was going to ask for the same courtesy.”
His jaw flexes.
For a second, we are not standing in a billionaire’s private lounge with his son watching us. We are back in a hotel room washed blue with morning rain, my heart too soft, his shoulder warm beneath my lips, a phone number left beside a coffee cup like a dare.
Archer’s eyes darken as if he remembers the same thing.
Then he turns just enough to include Milo in the verdict.
“You’re hired,” he says.
Milo pops to his feet. “For real?”
“For one week,” Archer adds.
My stomach dips.
One week. Temporary. Of course.
That is what I am here, apparently, for. Emergency patch. Human Band-Aid. Woman with a tote bag full of duck bandages and poor impulse control.
I force a smile for Milo, because his face has lit up like someone opened curtains inside him.
“One week is a very respectable trial period,” I say. “Even the duck approves.”
Milo grins down at his hand.
Archer waits until his son turns back toward the fallen dinosaur, then steps closer to me. Close enough that I catch his scent—clean soap, expensive cedar, and the same dark warmth that haunted me for months.
His voice drops to something private. Something that slides under my skin and stays there.
“You’re hired for one week, Miss James.”
I look up, refusing to let him see how much my pulse is tripping over itself.
Then his gaze lowers to my mouth, returns to my eyes, and hardens with a promise that sounds far too much like a threat.
“And before that week is over,” he says, “you’re going to tell me why you disappeared.”
For a second, I genuinely consider biting him.
Not hard. Just enough to reset the power dynamic.
Instead, I smile.
It is not my sweet smile, or my professional smile, or even my don’t-worry-your-child-is-currently-gluing-rice-to-the-dog smile. This one has teeth.
“That’s fascinating,” I say softly. “Because I was under the impression you were the one who disappeared.”
Archer’s eyes narrow.
Behind us, Milo makes an explosion sound with the dinosaur and the duck bandage, blessedly unaware that his brand-new emergency nanny and his terrifying father are standing two feet apart, apparently rewriting history with eye contact.
“I did not disappear,” Archer says.
“No? Then what do billionaires call it when they spend one unforgettable night with someone, let her leave her number, and then vanish into the ether?”
His face changes.
It is tiny. A flicker. But I catch it because catching tiny changes is half my job. A child’s chin wobble before tears. A parent’s too-bright smile before panic. A powerful man’s fury slipping just long enough for something like confusion to show underneath.
“You left your number,” he says.
I laugh once. “I literally just said that.”
“Where?”
The question is so strange that my anger trips over it.
“What?”
“Where did you leave it?”
“On the nightstand.” Heat crawls up my neck, because suddenly I am back there again—barefoot on hotel carpet, rain on the windows, my dress in one hand and my dignity in the other. “Beside the coffee cup. On hotel stationery. Very classic. Slightly humiliating. Hard to miss.”
Archer goes very still.
Not cold this time.
Still.
Like every thought in his head has stopped moving at once.
A knock sounds at the lounge door before either of us can speak.
Tessa appears in the opening, careful and pale, with her phone clutched to her chest. Her gaze flicks from Archer’s face to mine, then to Milo, who is now arranging a duck-versus-dinosaur peace summit on the rug.
“Sorry,” she says. “I know you said not to interrupt, but Celeste Wynn is on line two. Again. She says the board packet changed, Conrad Blackwell’s name is on the revised agenda, and she strongly recommends you don’t ignore this call unless you want to read about it in the financial press by noon.”
The air seems to leave the room.
Archer’s expression shutters so completely that I almost doubt the confusion I saw seconds ago. Almost.
“Tell Celeste I’ll call her back in ten,” he says.
“She said you’d say that.” Tessa swallows. “She said five.”
A muscle jumps in Archer’s jaw.
Milo looks up at the name Conrad. Not dramatically. Not enough that most people would notice. But I do. His small shoulders pull in, and the dinosaur in his hand lowers to his lap.
Archer notices too.
Whatever irritation he feels toward Tessa disappears beneath something colder.
“Three,” he says. “Close the door.”
Tessa vanishes.
I glance at Milo, then back at Archer. “Who’s Conrad?”
“No one you need to worry about.”
Ah.
A man answer. Useless and usually false.
Milo pushes to his feet, his socked foot stepping carefully around the vase shards. “I’m hungry now.”
The announcement is so sudden and miraculous that Archer looks almost stunned.
I clap my hands once. “Excellent. My work here is already legendary.”
Milo edges toward me and, after a brief internal debate that plays across his whole serious little face, slips his uninjured hand into mine.
Oh no.
Oh, this is bad.
Because his fingers are small and trusting, and something warm and dangerous opens behind my ribs.
Temporary, I remind myself.
One week.
Human Band-Aid.
Do not get attached to the billionaire’s grieving son. Do not get attached to the billionaire’s mouth. Do not get attached to any part of this tower, this family, this disaster wearing a custom suit.
Archer watches Milo’s hand in mine like it is both a miracle and a threat.
Then his eyes lift to mine.
The private question is still there. The accusation too. But now something else burns beneath it, something that looks too close to uncertainty for a man like him.
I hold Milo’s hand tighter.
“Breakfast first,” I say, because someone in this room has to be practical and apparently it is the woman who lied her way into billionaire-kid emergencies.
Archer steps aside to let us pass.
As I walk by him, his voice reaches me, low enough that only I hear it.
“This is not over.”
I do not look back.
Because my pulse is too loud, his son’s hand is too trusting, and the truth is suddenly a lot less simple than it was ten minutes ago.
Eight months ago, I left my number.
Archer Blackwell looks like he never got it.