9. Sloane
NINE
Sloane
The phone buzzes against my palm. "Vanessa Williams" flashes on the screen. It's nearly six o’clock in the afternoon. These people work around the clock.
Vanessa called, and we spoke briefly yesterday after I left Pope’s. She said she would call back once she spoke with Pope, and when I didn’t hear anything all day today, I started to worry.
My heart stutters as I swipe to answer.
"Hello, this is Sloane."
"Ms. Brennan, I'm pleased to inform you that you've been selected for the nanny position with the Carrigan household. Because of this unique situation, things will move quickly from here. You indicated you can start immediately. That is the only caveat."
My stomach does a weird flip, half relief, half panic. "That's great news. Yes, I can start whenever you need me."
"Mr. Carrigan was particularly impressed with your behavioral therapy credentials. He believes you're uniquely qualified to assist with Lennon's situation."
He certainly seemed impressed with my skills that night at the hotel, but he didn't show an ounce of interest when I came for the meet-and-greet at his house.
I bite my lip, chastising myself for continuing to go there. That night is a distant memory. Pope Carrigan is no longer the man who'd pressed me against his hotel door and touched me in places no one else has ever gone.
"Fantastic. I'm glad my training can be put to good use during this bridge time."
"We need you to report tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. The early start is essential for establishing Lennon's morning routine. I'll meet you there to get started."
"Tomorrow?" I sit up straighter. “I didn’t realize you meant that soon."
"Is that a problem?" Something in her tone suggests problems aren't tolerated.
"No, not at all." I grab a pen and scribble the time down in the pad sitting on the counter. "Seven AM, got it."
"Excellent. Now, regarding Lennon, you should know that his mother recently passed away from cancer. He's understandably withdrawn. Your background makes you ideally suited to help him through this transition."
My chest tightens. That poor kid. The haunted look in his eyes makes more sense now.
"This will be a live-in position, as you know. You'll have private quarters with your own bathroom. We'll review your specific off-hours tomorrow morning, but generally, you'll have evenings free once Lennon is settled. Do you have any questions?"
About a thousand. "Not that I can think of at the moment, but I'll write down anything that occurs to me tonight to discuss when we meet."
My voice sounds steadier than I am. I have so many emotions swirling inside of me that I'm trying my best to stuff down.
"Go ahead and bring your things with you tomorrow so you can get settled when you have downtime."
"Is there anything specific I should bring? Or prepare?"
"Just personal essentials. Everything for Lennon is provided. And of course, while you're there working, all of your meals will be covered. You'll just have to bring any special items you want to have for yourself. And clothes, of course."
I want to ask more about the child, about Pope, about what exactly I'm walking into. But I need this job, and at the end of the day, the details don't matter.
The rent isn't going to pay itself. That's what matters.
"Thank you, Vanessa. I look forward to meeting you at seven."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone.
I grab the notepad from the counter and write "PACKING LIST" at the top. Below it, I add: "Professional clothes. Swimsuit. Therapy books."
Then, after a moment, I add one more: "Courage."
My apartment looks like a department store exploded. Clothes drape off chairs, pile on the couch, and spill across the floor like they tried to make a break for it. The suitcase on my bed is already overstuffed, and I haven’t even gotten to my therapy materials.
I look at my canvas tote full of games, books, and tools that I know could help Lennon navigate losing his mom. If nothing else, they will be good ice breakers for us to start to build trust.
“Professional,” I murmur, folding a beige cardigan like it’s a talisman. “Keep it professional.”
My phone buzzes with Maris’s custom chime. I tap the speaker.
"Whisk me away to the days when our most important decision was whether to go to The Esso Club or write an essay."
“Those were the days. Any word about the job?”
“Yes, I have to be there tomorrow. I’m trying to figure out what to take.”
“Packing?”
“Trying to,” I say, tossing a pair of jeans into the “off-hours” pile. “It’s harder than you think to figure out what to bring when you’re moving in with your one-night stand… and his grieving seven-year-old.”
"Grieving?"
"Yes, the lady from the agency just told me his mom recently passed away from cancer. I guess that explains why Pope seems like a deer in headlights and told me he didn't have children. I have a hunch he was an absent father and is now being thrust into this."
"Jesus."
"I know."
“You've got this,” she says. “You can keep this professional. Focus on the kid. Forget Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome-in-all-the-ways-that-count. Nine weeks.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “As I told you, yesterday’s meeting was awkward, at best. I'll even go so far as to say it was weird. We barely made eye contact. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it was me.”
“Oh, he remembers,” she says dryly. “I do not doubt that.”
My neck heats instantly, like she cranked a furnace under my skin.
Her tone goes mock-thoughtful. “Maybe sleeping with your boss is a pre-interview advantage. It evens the playing field a little. Keep your chin up and be the badass you always are.”
“My heart is broken for this sweet little boy. I need to keep my focus on helping him through this time.”
“Atta girl. Besides that minor detail of intimately knowing your new boss, are you feeling good about being able to help Lennon?”
I sink onto the bed, cardigan still in my lap. “Honestly, I'm terrified. This feels like some mash-up of a clinical rotation and an emotional minefield. And I want to be what Lennon needs, but…”
“But you’re worried about Pope,” she finishes for me.
I don’t answer. Which is answer enough.
Maris sighs. “I think everything happens for a reason. Lennon’s lucky to have you if he barely knows his father and has lost his mother. You know how to give stability and warmth better than anyone I know.”
Her words should steady me. Instead, “stability” makes me think of Pope’s hands gripping my hips, and my pulse jumps.
“I need a lobotomy.”
She snorts. “You’ve got this.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fake it until you make it, right?”
“Sorry,” she says. “Now zip that bag and get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
She’s right. I close the zipper, glance at the clock, and swallow the knot in my throat. 5:30 AM is going to hurt.
If I keep my wits about me, I’ll remember that tomorrow isn’t about him.
Even if my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I'm over to the far right, ensuring that I'm not blocking anyone in.
Dawn breaks over the house in streaks of coral and gold, catching on dew-soaked hedges manicured to perfection. Landscaping like this probably has its own trust fund.
I shift my grip on my roller suitcase, grab my canvas bag of therapy games, and messenger bag as I follow the long curve of the driveway toward the front entrance. The ocean glitters beyond the house, the salt tang in the air faint but steady.
Seagulls caw overhead. Otherwise, it's blissfully quiet. There’s no traffic or neighbors immediately visible. Just waves in the distance and a soft breeze lifting my hair.
It’s not forever. I can do this. It could be a worse setting, so at least there's that.
The massive front door swings open before I can knock. Vanessa from the nanny agency stands framed in the entry, navy suit crisp, iPad in hand.
“Ms. Brennan. Thank you for being open to starting early. Lennon’s still asleep, so we can go over logistics before you meet with Mr. Carrigan.”
“Good morning.” I aim for professional warmth. “Beautiful place to start the day.”
“Indeed.” Her smile is efficient rather than friendly as she waves me inside. “We’ll get you settled and finalize the placement details. Then you can review Lennon’s routine with Mr. Carrigan.”
The entryway’s soaring ceiling makes my footsteps echo. Everything gleams in that museum-polished way that says it’s expensive and rarely touched. I take in more of it than I could yesterday, when my brain had short-circuited the second I realized my hookup was the hiring dad.
Vanessa pauses by a console table, pulling up a document on her tablet. “Before we start the tour, I’ll need you to sign the placement agreement.” She taps her iPad, stylus ready.
I set my bag down and focus.
“Nine-week term, confidentiality clauses here and here. Payment is weekly via direct deposit. Our office handles payroll, but Mr. Carrigan is your point of contact for any home concerns.”
I sign where she indicates, her manicured finger sliding down the screen to each clause.
“Great,” she says, tucking the iPad under her arm. “Let’s see your suite.”
I grab my bags as she leads me upstairs to the room Pope pointed out during yesterday’s whirlwind tour. “Full bath, deck access, and close to Lennon’s room if he needs you in the night.”
The space is larger than my entire apartment. There's a queen bed, crisp white linens, and French doors to a private patio.
“Bathroom through there, walk-in closet beside it.” She gestures. “You can leave your things here for now.”
I leave the suitcase to the side and put down my bags while my mind maps routes—how far to Lennon’s room, the layout he’ll be navigating, the empty feel of a house that hasn’t settled yet.
We pass through a living room that smells faintly of new leather. Beyond the glass doors, a play set rises beside the pool.
“Kitchen’s fully stocked,” Vanessa says. “His new pediatrician’s number is on the refrigerator, along with emergency contacts and dietary guidelines.”
I nod. “Did he sleep well last night? Any trouble settling?”
“Some distress, which is expected. We’ll check with Mr. Carrigan on how last night went, which was his first night here.” She glances at her watch. “Speaking of, he’ll review the daily schedule with you before leaving for work.”
My stomach tightens. Keep it professional.
“I’m available by phone any time,” she adds, steering us toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. “Mr. Carrigan should be here shortly to go through specifics. A quick word of advice, he’ll need your guidance and initiative.”
The words land heavier than she means them to. I signed up to babysit this child, not his father.
I take a slow breath, therapy training smoothing the flutter in my chest, and follow her inside.
Vanessa leaves, and the silence swells until it feels like the whole house is holding its breath. She’d made it sound like Pope would appear any second, but the only sound is the faint roll of the waves outside. I check my phone out of habit.
And then the footsteps echo down the hall. My pulse kicks hard, and I straighten in my chair.
He steps in with the click of his shoes on the wood floors. He's all crisp lines and quiet authority and absolutely stunning. Fuck me.
His charcoal suit is tailored so perfectly, it's like it was molded to him. Fresh shave and his dark hair is combed so neatly it dares me to touch it.
There isn't a trace of the man who’d once whispered filthy promises against my skin.
My entire insides climb into my throat, which I try to clear away to speak.
He beats me to it. “Ms. Brennan. I trust you’re settling in?”
Neither of us knew the other's last name that night. Now, that is how we address each other.
“Yes. Thank you.” I keep my hands flat against my thighs, resisting the urge to fidget. “The room is lovely.”
He nods once and sets a leather portfolio on the island between us. “Camila pulled this together. It's a schedule for Lennon. She also sent over the homeschool forms. She said it might be best to keep him here for now, at least until things settle down.”
I blink, surprised. “Homeschool?”
He flips the folder toward me, displaying a packet of forms clipped neatly inside. “Apparently, you just need to fill in your information and send it in. She’s already handled most of it.”
I glance at the packet, already half-completed in neat handwriting. Camila’s clearly calling the shots here and is more than just the aunt sitting in on the nanny interview.
“Okay,” I say more as a placeholder while I get a grasp on this. No one said anything about homeschooling.
“She thought a stable routine here would be better than moving him into a new classroom for a few weeks.”
I scan the paperwork. It’s simple enough: name, address, educational background. The thought of guiding Lennon’s day from breakfast to bedtime makes the job feel even bigger.
"My office is five minutes away." His tone is all boardroom efficiency. "The agency requires you to keep it to forty hours a week. The agency is interviewing for a weekend and afternoon nanny. In the meantime, I’ve blocked off windows when I can be here with him so you can take your time off. I’ll need you to work out the actual schedule within that framework. "
I nod, glancing down at the page. “So I don’t work on weekends?"
“Correct.” His eyes stay on the schedule, not me, like this is just another transaction.
"What about dinner?" I ask, keeping my voice even despite the electricity humming between us. "Any allergies or preferences?"
"No allergies. He seems to like pasta and Cuban food." A muscle in his jaw tightens. "The housekeeper stocks essentials twice weekly, and, like I mentioned the other day, I have a meal delivery service set up.”
“Bedtime routines? Comfort items? Any stories he likes?"
There’s the faintest hesitation before he says, "I'm hoping you can help establish that."
His phone rings. He glances at the screen, then back at me. "I need to take this. Lennon should be up soon."
He disappears down the hall, his deep voice low into the phone. I'm left with a neat schedule, the trace of his cologne, and the memory of a man who once had me pinned beneath him.
He definitely isn't the man who pulled me into the shadows and made the hours disappear.
This version is polished, distant. Safe.
I can’t decide if that’s a relief or a loss.