10. Pope
TEN
Pope
My dress shoes click against the floor as I move through the kitchen. The coffee is already brewing thanks to the timer the housekeeper sets every afternoon before leaving. A calculated escape before anyone stirs works best for all involved.
I grab my keys with enough force that they bite into my palm. My jaw tightens as I mentally scroll through the clusterfuck that is my life right now.
A week ago, I was analyzing the Good Samaritan takeover, my three-year plan locked in place. Now I'm raising a seven-year-old who barely speaks, and I've hired the woman I fucked senseless to be his nanny.
My fingers flex around the steering wheel as I back out of the driveway. The memory of her face when she realized who I was during the interview flickers through my mind. The shock. The anger. The flash of something else I refuse to acknowledge.
The coastal highway unfolds before me, a pristine stretch of asphalt bordered by palm trees and multimillion-dollar properties. Morning light spills across the water to my right, turning it into a canvas of gold and blue. I barely register any of it.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s a text from Camila.
Morning. How is Lennon adjusting? He told me on the phone he was nervous about sleeping in a new room. Just checking in.
I type back at the red light.
Quiet. Too quiet. But he stayed in bed. Thanks for calling him—it helped.
She sends back a simple heart emoji before I drop the phone facedown.
I’ve got to meet with the attorney today to sign the power of attorney for the closing docs. I’m still technically a renter at my house until everyone signs later this week. It makes no difference to me. An extra thirty thousand to move in before closing was worth it.
All of this is moving so fast.
My mind ticks through the avalanche of responsibilities. I’ve got a board meeting at nine, and a staff restructuring proposal due by noon. Three calls with investors who are getting antsy about the acquisition timeline are also wedged in there somewhere.
Somehow, between all that, I need to go by the attorney's office and review the temporary guardianship paperwork and submit it to the court by Friday.
"Fuck," I hiss as I hit a red light, drumming my fingers against the wheel. I've already rescheduled two meetings since Lennon arrived. Time I don't have, bleeding away.
Then there's her, in my house, with her warm eyes and that mouth that...
I slam the brakes on that thought. Hard.
The light turns green and I accelerate quickly, the engine growling in response. My phone buzzes with a calendar alert for Lennon's first therapy appointment tomorrow. Another hour I'll need to carve from somewhere, since I'll be taking him to give Sloane her time off.
I can't believe I got myself into this.
I pull into the parking garage beneath my office building, the clinical fluorescent lights washing over the car. As I step out, my shoulders drop a fraction. This, at least, is territory I understand. My space, my rules, my control.
Here, I can pretend the rest isn't happening.
The elevator doors whisper open onto the thirty-second floor. No receptionist yet. It's barely six-thirty. Good. The fewer witnesses to my early morning escape, the better.
I swipe my keycard across the sensor, and the glass doors to Carrigan Health Group slide open with a soft hiss. My footsteps echo across polished concrete as I move through the reception area, past the sleek furniture no one ever sits in long enough to wrinkle.
My office sits at the corner of the building, wall-to-wall windows framing the Atlantic.
The ocean view cost me an extra twenty percent on the lease, but I don’t regret it.
If I’m going to be away from Denver for the next eighteen to twenty-four months, trading the mountains for this coastline, I’ll take whatever comfort I can get.
And right now, that means water stretching to the horizon while I manage the conversion of Good Samaritan from a traditional hospital into a concierge model.
I shrug off my jacket, draping it over the back of my ergonomic chair. The familiar weight lifts from my shoulders, and for a split second, I can breathe again.
My laptop wakes with a touch, revealing forty-seven new emails since midnight. Another twelve texts from Caleb about the investor presentation.
I crack my knuckles and dive in, fingers flying across the keyboard. Delete. Forward. Flag for follow-up. My mind clicks into the familiar rhythm, each decision crisp and efficient.
"Dr. Reismann is threatening to walk if we change the oncology protocols." The Denver operations team needs guidance.
-Tell him he's welcome to walk straight to unemployment if he can't adapt. The protocols stay.
"Construction delays in the east wing renovation." Facilities management needs approval for overtime.
-Approved. Get it done.
"Revenue projections for Q3 need revision after Medicare changes." Finance needs my sign-off.
-Schedule a call for 2 PM.
The office is quiet, just the muted hum of the HVAC. At 6:45, there’s a knock, two quick taps, before the door opens.
It’s Dennis from IT, clutching a travel mug and his tablet. “Morning, boss. Got an alert that your VPN session dropped twice last night. I have a work order to make sure your home office is set up with the server, as well. I can go there after lunch if that works?”
I keep my eyes on the screen. “No issues. I just logged out early. As for the home office, yes, please take care of that. I’ll let my house staff know you’re coming. I won't be working there much, but if something comes up after hours, I want to be able to take care of it from there.”
He nods, not pressing. “Alright. I’ll run the network tests and get out of your hair. As for the home stuff, I'll let you know when we’re done. I can do most from here, but will need to run some things on site, as well.”
I nod and step away from the desk while finishing my emails on my phone.
When he leaves, the silence is heavier, somehow, than it was before. I sit down and push harder into the inbox.
By the time Tara appears at precisely eight, the sun has filled the room, painting the walls gold. She taps lightly on the door frame.
“Good morning, Mr. Carrigan. Coffee?”
I glance up briefly. "Black. And reschedule my lunch with the board chair. I have to go meet with an attorney, and that is the only place I can squeeze it in."
"Of course. Will you be leaving early again today for..." She hesitates.
"Family obligations. Yes."
The word family is foreign in my mouth, like I'm speaking someone else's language.
Tara is efficient and steady. She’s perfect for Palm Beach logistics, but she’s not Lenoir. Lenoir runs my calendar in Denver, orchestrates travel, and controls the moving parts. Tara just keeps things humming here on the ground.
When she's gone, I return to the spreadsheets, finding comfort in their rigid columns and predictable formulas. No confused seven-year-olds here. No hazel-eyed women with curves that haunt my thoughts. Just numbers. Control.
My phone buzzes. The building manager's name, Steve Bellamy, flashes on the screen. I frown. Why the hell is he calling?
"Carrigan."
"Mr. Carrigan, we've got a situation in the building that affects your suite." The manager's voice carries the strained politeness of someone delivering bad news.
I straighten in my chair, already feeling the day sliding sideways. "What kind of situation?"
"Water damage, sir. The law firm that takes up the entire floor above you had a bathroom pipe burst, and it went undetected for enough time to create a major water problem. If it hasn't seeped through their floor into your ceiling, yet, it's about to burst through."
My fingers tighten around the phone. "Surely you can mitigate before it becomes a problem, right?"
"That's the plan. But I can't let you stay there today." His voice drops an octave, the way people do when they know they're about to get yelled at.
"Are you serious?"
"My primary concern is the electricity. We've got electricians coming to make sure nothing shorts out.
There's a good chance we may have to replace most or all of the drywall if the water is behind the walls.
We won't know until we can get in there to assess the damage.
It's going to be loud at best, and a war zone at worst."
The edge of my desk digs into my palm as I grip it. A dull throb begins at my temples, spreading outward like ink in water.
"You're telling me my entire office is unusable? Today of all fucking days?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. I apologize. Safety protocols. We'll know more by the end of the day, but for now, can you work remotely?"
The investor presentation. The board meeting. The calls that can't be done from home with a seven-year-old and his nanny within earshot.
“This is a problem,” I say evenly. “I leased this space specifically for uninterrupted meetings and work. I don’t have the option of working from home right now.”
“I understand, and hopefully I’m overstating the issue. We’ll work as quickly as possible to get you back in. I can offer a different property if you need meeting room space.”
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself because all I want to do is blow a gasket. “Thank you. I’ll make due.”
I end the call, blood pounding in my ears. The universe is conspiring against me in increasingly creative ways. First, a kid drops into my life, then his nanny turns out to be my one-night stand, and now my only refuge is being yanked out from under me.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I exhale sharply through my nose, willing the tension in my shoulders to ease. It doesn't.
Fixing this requires triage. I pull up Lenoir’s contact. She’s still managing my work life and calendar from Denver.
“Lenoir, I need immediate rescheduling." I don't waste time with greetings. "My Palm Beach office is out of commission due to water damage. I need the board meeting moved to a conference room at Good Samaritan, all investor calls pushed to video, and the presentation team rerouted."
"I can shift all your calls to virtual through the end of the week," Lenoir’s crisp voice comes through the speaker.
"Okay."
"The investor presentation might actually work better as a Zoom. That will be less travel time for all parties involved. I'll cancel anything non-essential. Do you know how long you'll be out of the office?"
I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the pressure building behind my eyes, and ignore her question, because no, I don't.
"Fine. I don’t know anything beyond what I just told you. What about the board meeting?"
"Already on it. I just shot an email to my liaison for the executive suite at Good Samaritan. She said she's pretty sure they can accommodate you tomorrow afternoon instead, but will confirm and get back to me."
There's a knock on my door. I ignore it.
"Good." I begin gathering papers, already calculating how many hours this setback will cost me.
"In the meantime," Lenoir continues, "will you be working at home when you're not at the hospital until the repairs are complete? I have a ticket in with IT to set you up on the server, but I don't think that is set up yet."
“I spoke with Dennis this morning. He is working on that today.”
“Oh, good. So you will be working from home?”
I freeze, a file midway to my briefcase. "That's not ideal, but, yes, I'll have to make that work until I either can get back in here or we find an alternative."
“I’ll follow up with Dennis and make sure he has a sense of urgency. I know it’s not ideal, but we will make sure it’s as seamless as possible.”
“Also, start a search for temporary office space as well. I cannot wait for repairs if this will drag out more than a day.”
“When I checked last time, nothing matched your requirements,” she says.
I hear papers shuffle. “The Weston Building has executive suites, but they jump from ten thousand square feet to one hundred fifty. Nothing in between. The Breakers business center is an option, but it is peak season and they are booked most days.”
“Keep looking,” I say. “I need something that works this week. Reach out to the landlord before the end of the day to see if we’re looking at a day or two, or more.”
“Will do and I will revisit everything so we know our options in the event this does drag out.”
I end the call and step into the hall. Two men in hard hats are pulling ceiling tiles. There is a wet plaster smell and the soft roar of industrial fans somewhere behind the elevators. The superintendent calls as I reach the stairwell.
“Mr. Carrigan, quick update,” he says. “As you know, we had a significant leak from the floor above you. We are bringing in a remediation team to assess the moisture and potential material damage.”
“How long until my floor reopens?”
“It is too early to say,” he answers. “We have to dry the cavities and check the subfloor and drywall. I will know more once the team finishes the readings.”
I keep my tone even. “Give me a realistic range when you have one. I need to plan. My assistant, Lenoir, will be reaching out. You can communicate with her.”
“Understood. I will be in touch today.”
“Thank you.”
I head for the garage. The air is cool and smells like concrete dust. I slide into the Maserati, and the AC hits my face. It still feels warm.
This is temporary. One day at a time. Calls behind a closed door, working lunches off-site, and the conference rooms at the hospital for the sensitive pieces. It will be fine.
I can do anything for a short time.
Sloane edges into my thoughts. Bare feet on my kitchen tile, her long hair loose.
Professional distance, I remind myself.
Traffic moves along Ocean Boulevard. I keep it steady and loosen my tie as I roll my shoulders. But the stress sits between them like a rock.
The office is not the problem. The kid is not the problem. The problem is her in my home, close enough to hear her voice and smell her shampoo, while I am supposed to keep a line.
I pull into the drive and cut the engine. For a moment, I don't move. My hands stay on the wheel. I draw a slow breath and count it out.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of the cupholder and see it's from Lenoir.
Building superintendent says environmental team is on site. No timeline yet. Possible material removal pending moisture readings. I will keep searching for swing space.
No timeline. Which means plan for longer.
From inside the house, I hear a chair scrape on stone, then a light laugh. It carries through the open courtyard before the door closes again.
I pick up my bag and step out of the car.
Professional distance. Nothing else.