7. Sloane
SEVEN
Sloane
I wipe my sweaty palms against my black slacks one more time before approaching the massive beachfront home. The stunning structure is all clean lines and gleaming windows that reflect the morning sunlight.
Taking a deep breath, I mentally run through my interview answers again.
Stay professional. This is just another job, and I'm overqualified, to boot. I've got this.
The doorbell chimes softly inside when I press it. Seconds later, the heavy wooden door swings open to reveal a woman with dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Stress lines frame her eyes, but her smile seems genuine.
"You must be Sloane Brennan." She says with a slight accent. She extends her hand. "I'm Camila Reyes. Thank you for making this time work on such short notice."
"It's nice to meet you." I shake her hand, noting her firm grip.
"Please, come in." Camila steps aside, revealing a boy standing a few feet behind her.
He's small for seven, with shaggy dark hair that falls across his forehead and enormous brown eyes that seem to be taking it all in.
His planet-covered t-shirt hangs loosely on his thin frame. My heart squeezes at the careful stillness in his posture. I recognize that watchfulness from many of my therapy sessions.
I crouch down to his eye level, making sure to leave plenty of space between us.
"Hi. You must be Lennon. I'm Sloane. It's really nice to meet you."
He studies me for a moment before offering a small nod, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
"That's a cool necklace you have on," I tell him, noticing the unique black stone on the gold chain.
He fists the charm in his hand and bites his bottom lip.
Heavy footsteps echo from deeper in the house, and I look up as a tall figure appears from the hallway.
My stomach drops.
Pope.
Recognition flashes in his dark brown eyes before his expression shifts to careful neutrality.
He's dressed in a crisp button-down, similar to what he wore that night at Seaside Terrace.
Even if he were wearing a poodle skirt, there's no mistaking the broad shoulders, the sharp jawline, or the intensity that radiates from him.
He clears his throat and approaches me like he's introducing himself. I guess I need to play along.
"Ms. Brennan." His voice is controlled, professional, as if we've never met, as if I don't know exactly how that voice sounds when it's rough with desire and breathing hot against my ear.
"Thank you for coming. I'm Pope Carrigan."
He extends his hand, and I take it automatically. Even that brief contact sends an unwelcome tingle up my arm. I withdraw quickly, fighting to keep my expression neutral.
The man who told me he didn't have kids is now suddenly a single father hiring a part-time nanny?
A third adult appears beside him. She's a woman with auburn-streaked hair and assessing eyes who must be the guardian ad litem Vanessa mentioned.
"This is Ms. Black," Pope confirms, gesturing toward her. "She's the court-appointed representative for Lennon."
I nod politely, struggling to process this bizarre situation while maintaining my professional demeanor.
Pope steps back, gesturing toward the living room visible through an archway. "Please, let's continue our discussion in here."
I follow his lead, hyperaware of his presence as we move deeper into the house. The polite conversation does nothing to mask the unspoken questions hanging between us.
The living room is a stunning display of wealth with an open concept that frames the clean and bright greens and blues of the ocean beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. The late afternoon light streams across the open concept living space and expensive furniture that looks barely used.
Didn’t he say he just moved here days ago, and was staying in the hotel? Was that all a lie to get me into his bed? Holy fuck.
Camila gently guides Lennon toward a cream-colored sofa. "Come sit with me, mijo." Her voice is soft but firm. The boy complies, perching on the edge like he's not quite sure what to think of all of this.
He isn't especially warm with Pope, so I'm working hard to try to understand the dynamics here. Vanessa said there was trauma involved, and this situation is temporary, so there must be a story to all of this.
Pope extends his hand toward a chair positioned across from them. "Please, Ms. Brennan."
Ms. Brennan. Not Sloane. Not even a hint that a week ago, his mouth was on my neck as he stood behind me naked, pushing my limits with his confident strokes.
I sink into the offered seat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. It's my best impression of someone who has her shit together.
Ms. Black settles into an armchair between us, creating a professional triangle. She places a leather portfolio on the coffee table and adjusts her wire-rim glasses.
"Ms. Brennan, I'm Dana Black, the court-appointed guardian ad litem for Lennon.
" Her voice carries the measured cadence of someone who chooses her words carefully.
"My role is to ensure that his adjustment to this new arrangement proceeds smoothly and that his best interests remain the priority during this transition period. "
Court-appointed, transition, temporary.
Pope leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. The position makes the fabric of his shirt pull tight across his shoulders.
Stop noticing his shoulders.
"Could you tell us about your experience with children of Lennon's age?" Dana asks, drawing my attention back.
"Of course." I shift my focus to include Lennon in the conversation rather than talking over him. I fill her in on my schooling, my recent graduation, the therapy job I accepted, and my babysitting experience.
Her expression doesn’t change, but I can practically hear the unspoken That ’ s not what I asked. She wants years of household placements, bedtime routines, and maybe something about organic meal prep. My résumé is built around treatment plans and therapy notes, not nanny logs.
I'm not sure I have a satisfactory answer for her. I'm not a career nanny, and I've never lived with a child before. I've always had a finite beginning and end to each shift.
I do my best to satisfy her questions, going into more detail about the family I sat for regularly in South Carolina.
My gaze drifts toward the backyard visible through the windows. "I see you have a swing set and a big pool. Do you like to swing, Lennon?"
He gives a small shrug, then glances quickly at Camila, as if checking whether this interaction is okay. The silent communication between them speaks volumes. He feels safe with her.
"What kind of daily structure do you typically use with children?" Dana continues.
She’s picturing a veteran nanny with a decade of live-in jobs, color-coded calendars, and a rotation of Montessori crafts. I’m twenty-five, fresh out of grad school, with more babysitting hours than I could ever tally and years of therapy sessions under my belt.
My “structure” is less about chore charts and more about helping kids feel safe enough to be themselves.
"Consistency is crucial," I say aloud, keeping my tone even.
Dana Black nods her head and writes something down.
“Especially," I pause, adjusting for the fact that Lennon’s listening. "Especially after big changes. Regular mealtimes, activities that fit their developmental stage, and predictable quiet periods help children feel grounded."
I don't know what has uprooted this child, but I can sense we are dealing with some major changes here.
Pope hasn't spoken, but I sense his eyes on me, steady and evaluating. A flash of memory, his lips lightly brushing my ear from behind, hands gripping my hips, shoots through me uninvited.
Focus, Sloane.
"And you're comfortable with a live-in arrangement?" Dana asks.
"Yes, absolutely."
Dana nods, seemingly satisfied. "Perhaps Mr. Carrigan could show you the rest of the house? It would be good for you to see the space and living arrangements."
Pope rises to his feet with the fluid grace I remember all too well. "That's a great idea. Let me show you the rest of the house. I'm still learning my way around, myself."
He leads us through an archway into a gleaming kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. Stainless steel appliances reflect the morning light. A massive island with marble countertops dominates the center, surrounded by sleek barstools. Everything is immaculate, untouched.
"The kitchen was recently updated," Pope explains, his hand barely skimming the countertop as he walks past. “I’ve recently set up a weekly meal delivery service, but you're welcome to prepare whatever you'd prefer."
I nod, taking it all in. This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment back in grad school.
"Do you cook, Lennon?" I ask, glancing down at the boy who trails behind Camila.
He shrugs one small shoulder, eyes darting around the space.
"He makes excellent tortillas," Camila offers, her hand gently resting on his back. "With his mom."
The words hang in the air for a moment. No one responds, but I catch the flicker of something cross Pope's face.
We move through a wide hallway lined with abstract paintings in blues and grays. I wonder if Pope chose them or if he paid someone to do it. They seem too impersonal for the man who'd whispered heated words against my skin last week.
Pope slides open a set of glass doors at the end of the hall. "The backyard."
For the first time, Lennon perks up. The space is stunning. There's a large wooden deck that transitions to a manicured lawn with a professional-grade swing set on one side. Beyond that, steps lead down to what appears to be a private beach access.
I walk with Lennon toward the swings, careful not to crowd him. "Do you like the ocean?"
Another small nod, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, the necklace clenched between his lips. I've watched him fidget with the necklace the entire time I’ve been here. This must be what he does to calm himself.