12. Pope
TWELVE
Pope
The dishwasher's persistent hum fills the kitchen, punctuated by the soft rhythm of waves breaking outside. I lean against the counter, scrolling through work emails on my phone, when footsteps pull my attention up.
Sloane freezes in the doorway, clearly not expecting to find me here. Her hair's damp at the edges, face scrubbed clean. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
I should leave, mumble something about a conference call, and retreat to my office. Instead, I set my phone down.
"Day's over. Glass?" I gesture to the bottle of Cabernet sitting unopened on the counter. The realtor left it here for me, and I don't drink wine.
She hesitates, then nods. "Sure."
I uncork it, grab a wine glass from the cabinet, and pour, sliding the glass across the counter to her. Our fingers don't touch in the exchange, but it wouldn't matter if they did. This is just courtesy between colleagues. Professional appreciation.
"The visual timer worked," I say, keeping my voice even. "And the two dinner options. Smart moves. You're good at this."
She takes a sip, throat working as she swallows. "He needs predictable choices. I believe children should have control where it's safe to have it."
"The book, too. He seemed to really enjoy you reading to him."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Dr. Seuss is reliable that way."
Steam from the dishwasher curls up, catching a tendril of hair at her temple. My fingers twitch with the impulse to brush it back. I grip my glass of Perrier tighter.
"I can handle a budget the size of a small country, but pasta foam still wins," I say, nodding toward the dried splash on the stovetop.
She laughs. It's a soft, surprised sound that hits me low in the gut. "Next time, lower the heat before you add the pasta. Water molecules get too excited."
Next time. As if we're settling into a rhythm, a domestic pattern.
My mind flashes to her mouth opening under mine, the catch in her breath when I pushed inside her, the way she went crazy when I touched her, how she'd bitten my shoulder to keep quiet when she came.
Fuck. I shift my stance, grateful for the counter between us.
"I'll make a note," I say, my voice betraying my normally stoic demeanor.
She glances down at her binder, running a finger along the row of checkmarks. Her t-shirt clings where dish water splashed earlier, outlining the curve of her breast. I force my eyes up, back to her face.
"Good work today," I add, setting my glass down with a decisive click. Time to redirect.
"Thanks," she says, clearly not sure what exactly I'm thanking her for, but seemingly grateful for the compliment.
"So, listen. My office flooded today. Well, actually, the office above mine. A pipe burst. That's why I was home."
Her eyebrows lift. "Oh, gosh. Did it mess up your office?"
"Not that I could tell, at least this morning. But according to the landlord, it caused a lot of damage to the building, and they have to do this whole remediation thing."
"Sounds serious."
"The work will take two weeks, minimum. I'll be working from here while they get it sorted out." I watch her process this information.
"Oh, okay." That's all she says.
"The building manager offered us a satellite office downtown, but it doesn't have the security protocols I need. Client files, HIPAA compliance..." I trace the rim of my glass with my thumb. "Not an option."
Sloane's shoulders drop a fraction. She gets it without my having to spell out the complications.
"IT was here today, and they will arrive at eight tomorrow morning to finish everything to secure the VPN, the server, the whole thing. I'll split time between here and the hospital."
She nods, practical and quick. Her fingers adjust on the wine glass stem, like she's already reworking tomorrow's schedule in her mind. Not a hint of inconvenience crosses her face.
"I'm sure this goes without saying, but I'll need uninterrupted time when I'm working from home."
"No problem." Her eyes meet mine. "Lennon and I spend a lot of time outside, so we will just be mindful of that."
The house settles around us, floorboards creaking as they cool. Through the kitchen window, stars scatter across the night sky.
"It's clear out. Want to continue this on the patio?" The words escape before I can analyze them. That’s probably not an appropriate invitation for a boss to offer his employee.
She hesitates, then lifts a small white contraption she has in her hands. "Sure. That would be nice. I have the monitor, so I'll hear if Lennon wakes up."
As she walks ahead of me, her t-shirt rises slightly, revealing a strip of skin above her shorts. My mind instantly conjures the feel of that skin under my palms, how it would be to run my fingers across that tender space.
My mouth waters.
I blink hard and use all of my might to crush the thought. Focus on the logistics of tomorrow's meetings.
We step out, the salt air washing over us. She settles into one of the gliders, with the monitor balanced on her knee.
I'm grateful for her competence, for the way she's stepped into this chaos with Lennon that I have absolutely no business handling. What was I thinking, agreeing to guardianship? A child needs stability, routine, things I've never provided anyone.
I'm grateful that Sloane is the one here to make it all work.
"About that nature program you mentioned at lunch." I lean back, watching her expression shift from surprise to cautious interest. "I called Camila this afternoon."
"You did?" Sloane's fingers tighten around her wineglass.
"She spoke with the director at Seabreeze. Of course, she asked all the questions I didn't think to ask." The ocean breeze lifts a strand of hair from her forehead.
“Wonderful.”
“She was impressed with the intimate program and how they teach healing through caring for something else."
Sloane sits straighter. "It really is a wonderful way to help children work through things they can't understand at a young age."
"I appreciate you taking the initiative of finding it."
"So, does that mean y'all agree to give it a try for Lennon?"
"Lennon's enrolled for the rest of this week. He starts tomorrow, twelve-thirty to four-thirty, and then we will evaluate if we want to continue it."
Her smile breaks across her face like sunrise. "That's fantastic. He'll do so well there."
"You found a good option." I take a slow sip of my water, letting the admission settle between us. "Better than what I came up with."
The glider creaks as it rocks forward. "I'm glad you reconsidered."
"Camila did most of the convincing. She knows what he needs."
Sloane's legs curl under her, the monitor balanced on the arm of her chair. "I can handle drop-off and pick-up. It's only ten minutes away."
“Lenoir, my assistant, will add you to the Tahoe insurance tomorrow morning. Use that instead of your car. Saves you gas, mileage."
"I don't mind using my own car."
"I mind." The words come out firmer than intended. “I bought that vehicle for precisely this reason. There is a gas card in the center console.”
She nods, tension easing from her shoulders. "I appreciate that."
“The paperwork with authorized pickup names will be on my desk by morning. You, me, Camila, and I will add the weekend nanny if we ever need a backup. I’d like you to take it when you drop him off.”
She nods, then hesitates. “I’ve been thinking about transitions. I can imagine they will be tough for him, at least to start. I might try a two-song entry plan for drop-off, using the same playlist every day. It creates predictability. I’ll share with the other nanny if she ever does pick up.”
“Smart,” I say. And it is.
Our smiles catch and hold across the counter. For a second, it feels like more than logistics. Like we’ve taken some of the edge off of our interactions. Professional, sure, but something warmer hums underneath.
Her smile lingers, mine answers, stretching the silence too long.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Memory ambushes me—her taste, her sounds, the way her tongue slid against mine.
My hand tightens around the glass, knuckles straining white. My dick hasn’t gotten the clue that she’s my employee now.
She breaks the silence first. Her voice is low and careful. “One more thing. I hope I'm not being too forward, but I've been careful to listen for how Lennon addresses you, and I've missed it so far. So that I know how to refer to you in front of him, does he call you Daddy, or Papa, or….”
“Brother,” I say.
Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Lennon calls me Pope. When he talks to me, that is. I’m not his father. I’m his half-brother.”
“Oh.” Her hand stills on the monitor. “I misunderstood. I apologize.”
The ocean crashes against the shore, steady, filling the silence. I breathe it in before I go on.
“Camila, Lennon's mother’s cousin, wants to adopt him once the court allows. For now, it’s me. Speaking of, is it okay if I leave Camila's number for you to call with Lennon? She likes to talk to him daily.”
Her eyes search mine. “Of course, please leave her number. We can make that part of our daily routine.”
I shrug, tracing the condensation on my glass. My jaw tightens. “I won’t let Lennon go through what I did.”
“That’s very admirable.”
Something in her gaze shifts. The professionalism slips, replaced by something steadier. Respect, warmth, even. It brushes against a part of me I don’t usually let anyone near.
“It’s what anyone would do,” I mutter, looking away.
“No.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “It’s not.”
I risk meeting her eyes again. Something electric passes between us. It's not just attraction, though that's there too, but a deeper understanding. It's almost a recognition.
My hand grips the arm of the chair to keep from reaching for her. The air between us is charged, making it dangerous with possibility. She shifts in her seat, and I wonder if she feels it too.
"Pope, I?—"
A rustling sound comes from the monitor. Lennon turns in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. We both freeze, then she brings it to her ear to listen more carefully.
"I should check on him," she says, rising to her feet.
"Right." I stand too quickly, our glasses nearly colliding as we both reach for them. "I have early calls tomorrow anyway."
The sliding door clicks shut behind Sloane. I watch her figure disappear through the house and out of sight.
I sit back down, enjoying the mild night for a few more minutes, letting the ocean’s rhythm compete with the noise in my head.
A week ago, I would have laughed if anyone told me this would be my life.
I came to Palm Beach to oversee a hospital transition, not to become guardian of a child I barely know, hire a live-in nanny I happened to have slept with, and spend my evenings debating the merits of nature programs.
The absurdity of it all breaks loose in my chest, and I laugh into the night air, short and sharp.
I walk back to the house, turning off the back light and locking the door.
Standing alone in the kitchen, the ocean's persistent rhythm is audible even through the closed door. None of it drowns out the noise of my thoughts.
I grab the wine bottle and my glass, draining the last drops of my water.
The glass is cool against my palm as I trace its rim with my thumb, replaying Sloane's expression when she realized I wasn't Lennon's father. The way her eyes widened, then softened with something beyond professional interest.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting the glass down a little too hard on the stone countertop.
My body betrays me, heat coursing through my veins at the memory of her skin under my hands. The curve of her hip, the soft gasp when I?—
My phone buzzes against my ass, vibrating in my back pocket. I pull it out, squinting at the screen.
Val.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but she'd just keep calling. Valerie Carrigan doesn't take silence for an answer.
“Hey.”
“You sound like a man carrying too much weight and not enough fun,” she sings, her voice bright and cutting as ever.
“I swear, where do you come up with this shit you say?”
She laughs. “Tell me you’re not sitting alone in that big fancy house, brooding.”
“Fine. I won’t tell you.”
She hums knowingly, then shifts. “And Lennon? How’s that sweet, precious boy doing?”
“Adjusting,” I say. “Slowly.”
“And you?”
“I’m managing.”
“Mm. That’s your word for suffering in silence. You got that from me, you know.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m fine, Val.”
"Sure you are." She pauses. "You know, I'm proud of you. Stepping up for that boy. Your father would've?—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp, brittle.
"Fair enough." She softens her tone. "But you're not Chris, Pope. Never have been. That's why you're there for Lennon when no one else would be."
I grip the neck of the wine bottle until it creaks in warning. "Is there a point to this call?"
"Just checking in." Her voice shifts, with that same blend of truth and teasing that's uniquely Valerie.
"Give Hart my love, then. I'm going to turn in. I've got an early morning tomorrow."
"Before you go, Hart and I were thinking we could come see you and meet Lennon now that you're settled."
The thought of juggling her on top of everything else makes my head pound. "Lennon’s dealing with a lot right now, Val. He barely knows me at this point. I’d love that, but let’s hold off a little longer."
"That makes sense. When he's ready, and you think you're up for company, and maybe even some babysitting, you let me know, Son, okay?"
"Will do."
“Take care of yourself, Pope,” she says finally, her tone a mix of truth and teasing. “Because you and I both know—burnt-out men make lousy guardians.”
The line goes quiet before I can answer.
I stare at the dead phone in my hand, her words still humming through me. Valerie has always been a little out there, never perfect. But she’s always been there.
Her advice always sounds half like snake oil, half like prophecy. And it always lands.
But it isn’t just Lennon I’m thinking of right now. It’s her.
Sloane’s face refuses to leave my head, the taste of her still imprinted on my memory. Burnt-out men make lousy guardians. Maybe so. But it isn’t exhaustion that’s going to ruin me.
It’s wanting her that is going to break me before this is all done.