18. Pope
EIGHTEEN
Pope
A high-pitched beeping tears through my sleep. My eyes snap open, disoriented in the darkness of my bedroom.
For a moment, I forget where I am, what day it is, but then memories of Sloane beneath me flood back.
What the fuck is that noise?
I roll over, arm reaching for her warm body, but find only cooling sheets.
"Sloane?" My voice is rough with sleep.
My vision adjusts to the dim light. She's across the room, already half-dressed, slipping into her shorts with quiet efficiency. My chest tightens at the sight.
"Sorry," she whispers, grabbing her tank top from where I'd tossed it hours earlier. "It's Lennon's monitor. The battery's dying."
The beeping continues insistently. It's a mechanical intrusion into what had been perfect. I sit up, sheets pooling at my waist, watching her dress.
"You're leaving." It isn't a question, but a statement of fact that frustrates me just saying it.
"I need to put the monitor in its cradle. The battery is dying. Plus, I should be in my room when Lennon wakes up." She runs fingers through her tangled hair, trying to smooth it. "Go back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
"Three twenty-one."
"Lennon won't be up for at least three more hours. Let me hold you for a little longer.”
Something protective and possessive rises in me, something I didn't even know lived inside my chest until this moment. My jaw clenches as I watch her reach for the doorknob.
I stand, not bothering with clothes, my erection betraying my real intentions. I want to hold her. Her eyes drop, then quickly return to my face.
"Pope—"
I cross to her in three strides, pulling her against me. My hands pull her ass into me, her skin warm through the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Stay." The word comes out rougher than intended.
"I can't. If Lennon wakes up and I'm not there?—"
"He won't." I press my forehead to hers. "And I want to wake up with you."
The admission costs me something. I don't say things like this or admit to needs or wants that can't be satisfied with money or power.
She touches my face, her thumb tracing my jawline. "You're not playing fair."
"I never do." I kiss her slowly and deeply, feeling her soften into me.
When we break apart, she's smiling. "If you behave yourself, maybe I'll come back another night."
The promise in her voice makes my blood run hotter. I kiss her again, harder this time.
"I'm counting on it," I murmur against her lips.
With a final, lingering kiss, she slips from my grasp. "Goodnight, Pope."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me standing naked in the middle of my bedroom, achingly hard and completely undone.
I take my time in the shower, letting hot water run over my shoulders while memories of last night replay behind my closed eyes. The sweetness lingers on my tongue. I can hear her breath catching, then breaking into those quiet gasps as her body trembled against mine.
Shit. I'm hard again just thinking about her.
By the time I'm dressed in my suit and a hot pink tie, I've convinced myself I can maintain professional composure. This was sex. Incredible sex, but still. I can handle breakfast with my nanny.
My nanny. The phrase sits wrong now.
Voices drift up from downstairs. Sloane's gentle encouragement and Lennon's small, hesitant responses harmonize. I pause at the top of the stairs, straightening my cuffs and taking a breath.
The kitchen is bright with morning light when I enter. Sloane stands at the counter in jean shorts and a loose white t-shirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun that exposes the nape of her neck. The spot I kissed last night. The spot that made her shiver.
Her eyes meet mine instantly, like she sensed me before I entered. Something electric passes between us. It's acknowledgment, desire, uncertainty, all compressed into a second of eye contact.
Mine.
The thought slams into me with startling force. I want to pull her against me, to feel her curves pressed to my body again. To claim what I touched in darkness.
Sloane looks away first, cheeks flushing as she busies herself with wiping already clean counters.
"Sloane made me eat eggs." Lennon's voice breaks the silence. He sits at the island, fork in hand, looking between us with those watchful eyes. "They're good now."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe you should thank her for making you eat them. I love eggs. They’re good for your muscles.”
"Me, too. Yeah, thank you, Sloane."
I clear my throat. "Morning," I say, looking at Sloane, willing her to look at me again.
"Morning." Sloane's voice is controlled and careful. She doesn't look up from the counter.
I move to the coffeemaker, brushing close enough to catch her scent. It’s vanilla and something citrusy that clings to her skin and sends shivers through me, causing my mouth to water.
It’s the same scent that's probably on my sheets upstairs.
"What are you doing today, buddy?" I ask Lennon, grateful for the distraction since it seems like neither Sloane nor I is sure how to ease into the morning after the night we shared.
"Micah is coming over to swim today," he says, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. "Sloane is having a meeting with Ms. Angela."
"A meeting, huh?" I pour coffee, hyperaware of Sloane's movements beside me. "I've got meetings all morning, too, but I should be back by four."
“That’s early,” Sloane says. It’s not a question, but it is, too. I don’t normally join them so early in the day. And I certainly don’t call it home.
“Thought I’d see what you guys are up to. I’ll have more work, but I’d like to hear about your day at Seabreeze when you get home. When is Micah coming?”
“Oh, Angela, Micah's mom, has been homeschooling for two years. She's going to show me the ropes, and we are going to form a sort of mini-consortium with the boys.”
"A mini-consortium?" I arch an eyebrow, continually impressed by how seriously she takes Lennon's care. "You're putting together a homeschool program already?"
Heat rushes to my face as Sloane finally meets my eyes. There's something determined in her expression that wasn't there yesterday. Something that reaches into me about here that wasn’t there before, either.
"I figured since I’m responsible for his education, I should have a proper plan." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "No sense reinventing the wheel."
Responsible for his education. I expected a nanny to handle Lennon's basic needs, maybe keep him entertained. Not this level of investment.
"You didn't have to do all that." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"I'm a behavioral therapist who specializes in child development." She leans against the counter, sure of herself in a way that rattles me. My eyes dip, catching the soft shadow between her breasts as she bends closer.
I’m speechless.
"This is what I do, Pope."
Lennon watches our exchange with those too-observant eyes, fork hovering between his plate and mouth.
"Well, I appreciate it,” I say after clearing my throat to gather myself. I mean it more than she knows. "Honestly, education hadn't even made my crisis list yet."
Something softens in Sloane's expression. "That's why I'm here. To handle the things you haven't had time to think about."
"I appreciate it."
Her smile reaches her eyes this time. "You're welcome."
I want to touch her. I want to pull her to me and ask if she'll come to my room tonight.
Instead, I drink my coffee and watch her wash the pan she used to scramble the eggs.
I look at my watch and realize I'm lingering too long. "I'm heading out. Good luck with the meeting. See you guys this afternoon, Lennon," I say directly to him as I offer him a fist pound before walking out.
The sleek conference table stretches before me like a runway, polished mahogany reflecting the harsh fluorescents overhead. Robert passes the legal briefing across to me, his Mont Blanc pen tapping impatiently against his legal pad.
"As you can see, Pope," Caleb says, "relocating the uncontracted staff to other facilities is a delicate operation. We've identified the key personnel who have expressed a desire not to join the private practice, but we need to ensure the transition is seamless."
I nod, scanning columns of names that should concern me. These are the people whose lives are being upended by my business decisions. This is the kind of logistics I've been working on for years.
"What's the status of the legal injunction from Mr. Daniels?" I ask.
"We expect it to be a long process," Caleb says, his tone grave. "We need to prepare for the worst, but hope for the best."
He's right, but all I can think about is the way Sloane's hair smelled like citrus this morning.
The staff continues discussing the transition. I'm so tired of thinking about it, but that is why I'm here. For some reason today, I can't concentrate on any of it.
"Pope? Your thoughts on the membership tiers?" Robert prompts.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back to the boardroom. "The platinum tier needs adjustment. We're undervaluing direct physician access."
My phone vibrates against the table. Sloane's name appears on the screen. My heart rate spikes instantly.
Lennon and Micah found a hermit crab on the beach. They named it Bruce Wayne. Sorry to bother you, but he insisted I send you a pic.
A photo follows. Lennon's small hands cradle a tiny shell, his face serious with concentration. Something warm unfurls in my chest.
"We're discussing patient acquisition costs," Robert says, frowning at my distraction. "The risk factors on page seven?—"
"Right."
Risk factors. I've never been risk-averse in business, but with Sloane, every moment feels like standing on a precipice. The risk of her walking away when this temporary arrangement ends. The risk of Lennon getting attached. The risk of me getting attached.
Too late for that.
"The conversion rate from standard insurance to membership exceeds projections," someone says from across the table.
I nod, making notes in the margins.