25. Sloane
TWENTY-FIVE
Sloane
One Week Later
The mattress dips as Pope shifts beside me, dragging me closer until my back presses against his chest. His arm snakes around my waist, heavy and warm against my bare skin. I nestle into him, savoring the solid weight of his body curved around mine.
"Mmmm," I hum, tracing the veins on his forearm with my fingertip. The cool sheets against our overheated skin feels divine. "This is nice."
His breath tickles my neck as he presses his lips to my shoulder. "Nice is an understatement."
I turn in his arms to face him, my cheek finding the perfect spot against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady beneath my ear, a rhythm I could fall asleep to every night.
"You're virtually a pro at this homeschooling thing. How do you think it's going?" Pope's voice rumbles through his chest.
"We're finding our way. Angela has been a lifesaver, showing me the ropes. I honestly don't know if I could have done it without her." I trace patterns on his skin.
"I doubt that very seriously. But I'm glad you have her to give you the extra confidence."
"Having Micah as a model for him, and Angela for me, took this from scary as shit to a part of my job I look forward to. Lennon is very bright and picks up on things very easily. It's a joy, honestly."
Pope presses a kiss to my forehead.
"I'm so glad, baby."
That word again. Baby. It’s only the second time he’s called me that, but it knocks the wind out of me. My throat tightens, a lump pushing up that I force back down. This feels so normal, almost safe, like a bubble I’m terrified will burst any second.
"Now, let's hope he survives the next five or so weeks with Agatha Trunchbull as his teacher."
"Agatha Trunchbull. Who is that? She sounds frightening."
"Don't tell me you haven't seen Matilda ? That is a classic. She’s the monstrous headmistress. You know, mean as hell, always terrorizing the kids."
"I haven’t. But if she’s mean and terrifying, that doesn’t track."
"Maybe not. But if I’ve got a little Trunchbull in me, then Angela’s the Miss Honey. Which is why I’m glad Lennon has them, too, and is spending the night there tonight."
Pope’s hand slides lower on my back, fingers spreading possessively. "I'm pretty glad about his spending the night, too, but for a different reason."
"Mmm-hmm." I tilt my head to meet his eyes. "Makes this feel less stolen, doesn't it? No monitors. No sneaking back to my room before dawn."
"No alarms," he adds, then winces. "Actually, I still have an early call, but I’m glad I get to wake up with you instead of you leaving me all alone."
"Of course you do." I poke his ribs lightly. "But I’ll be right here if you want to slide in for a quickie after your call."
"That sounds like an amazing plan." His fingers thread lazily through my hair.
"Go ahead and pencil me in."
He smiles and pulls me tight. His broad chest and strong arms are like armor. When he holds me, it's like I could face anything, do anything.
I wake slowly, stretching into the warm imprint Pope left behind, the sheets twisted around my legs. For once there's no alarm, no rush to sneak back to my own room.
The sun is only just starting to filter through the curtains, pale light spilling across the rumpled bed.
I relish the rare luxury of waking in his space. That is, until I hear his angry voice outside and realize something is very wrong.
It comes sharp and clipped from beyond the open balcony doors, too harsh to ignore. Barefoot, I slip from the bed and pad closer, my pulse picking up as I catch sight of him through the glass.
He's pacing the length of the balcony in nothing but boxer shorts, shoulders taut, hair mussed from sleep. The phone is pressed to his ear, and fury rides every line of his body.
The words hit me like a blow. "She's the goddamned nanny. How is that anyone's fucking business?"
He's quiet. The person on the other end of the phone is obviously talking. He runs his hand through his hair and then leans on the railing with his elbows.
“Who I fuck… Jesus Christ. Goddammit… it’s fucking temporary.”
My stomach twists. The goddamned nanny. Who I fuck.. . The heat that floods my face isn't desire but humiliation.
Last night had felt like more, like real intimacy, like the possibility of something beyond my time here.
Now, listening to him spit those words into the phone, I realize I was making up a fantasy in my mind. I'm nothing more than the nanny, than a fuck.
Maris's warnings echo in my head, cruel in their accuracy. You'll get hurt. He'll toss you aside.
Shame and heartbreak climb my throat, choking me. I'm already falling for him, and he doesn't see me as anything more than something he will discard once this temporary nanny position is done.
I step back from the door, chest tight, my bare feet cold against the hardwood. I don't confront him. I can't, not now, not like this.
Instead, I gather my clothes from the floor and slip into my own room, wrapping myself in my sheets as if they could shield me from the truth pressing in.
The sheets in my room are stiff and cold against my skin. Nothing like the warm cocoon I'd slipped away from before I awoke.
I tug my tank top down and pull my sweatpants higher. Clothes that were comforting last night as we snuggled on the sofa, and today all wrong on my body.
My ears strain for every sound from the hall. Each creak of the house is magnified. I hear the balcony door slide shut, his footsteps returning to the bedroom. Then, drawers open and close.
"Come in here," I whisper to myself, hating how desperate I sound even in my own head. "Notice I'm gone. Tell me I misunderstood."
I wrap my arms around my middle, squeezing tight like I can physically hold myself together. My throat burns with unshed tears.
The quiet shuffling from his room continues. I recognize the closet door opening, hangers sliding, and the bathroom faucet running. What I don’t hear is anything to indicate that he's searching for me.
My phone blinks on the nightstand. I pick it up to see a text from Angela about taking the boys to the museum and then dropping them off at Seabreeze. I can't even look at it.
Heavy footsteps cross the upstairs landing, then the distinct, measured click of dress shoes on the wooden stair treads.
He's not coming toward my door. He's going downstairs, away from me.
"The goddamned nanny," I repeat his words aloud, barely audible. Each syllable cuts deeper than the last.
A cabinet door thuds closed in the kitchen below. The refrigerator opens and shuts. The coffee machine gurgles to life.
Then I hear Pope's voice again. It's low and controlled, nothing like the anger from before. Another business call.
He never looked for me.
The mattress seems to swallow me as I curl tighter into myself. If I'd meant anything at all beyond convenient sex, he would have clocked the empty space beside him and asked me why I left before the morning quickie we'd discussed last night before drifting off.
He would have wanted to know why I left. He would have come to find me.
Instead, he saw I was gone and carried on with his morning. I was just a warm body. Something to fuck until the nanny job ends.
Heat floods my face, shame burning from my chest to my hairline. My stomach hollows out, like someone's scooped everything important from inside me.
I'd let myself imagine something real. His hands in my hair, his whispers against my skin, the way he held me after we'd made love. That's what I thought it was.
I'd convinced myself it meant something.
God, I'm such an idiot.
I press my face into the pillow, feeling its cool surface against my burning cheeks. "Get it together, Sloane," I whisper fiercely. "Get. It. Together."
The pillow muffles a sound that might be a sob or might be a laugh at my own stupidity. I can't tell anymore.
I shove out of bed, standing on legs that are too weak to hold me. My reflection in the mirror shows puffy eyes and messy hair. I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin.
Fine. I'll be the goddamned nanny. I'll fade into the background of his life, invisible except for when he needs someone to watch Lennon. Professional. Detached. Temporary.
Just like he said.
I take off the tank top from last night that still smells like him and drag a t-shirt over my head with savage force. Every movement is stiff and robotic.
My fingers fumble with my bra clasp, hooking it too tightly against my skin. I wince but don't fix it. The discomfort is appropriate somehow.
The clothes I grab are plain and forgettable. I’m wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue top. Nanny clothes. Professional clothes.
"The goddamned nanny." His words echo, sharper with each mental replay. "Who I fuck." Another jab.
My bare feet slap against the floor as I jerk the duvet into place, smoothing wrinkles with vicious precision. The pillows receive the same treatment, fluffed and positioned with military corners. As if straightening my bed will somehow straighten out the mess inside my head.
"You're so stupid," I whisper to myself, yanking my hair into a knot so tight it pulls at my temples. "So fucking stupid."
I catch a whiff of his cologne on my skin and nearly gag. Last night it had been intoxicating. Now it's just evidence of my mistake.
Maris tried to warn me. "He'll hurt you," she'd said. "Men like that don't see women like us as anything but convenient."
I'd rolled my eyes, so sure I was different, that this was developing into something special.
My throat tightens, a knot of humiliation lodged firmly behind my sternum.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, desperate for someone outside this house to anchor me. Someone whose eyes won't cut through me, whose voice won't remind me of promises whispered in the dark.
The weekend nanny arrives tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours. I just need to survive twenty-four hours of being invisible, professional, detached. Then I can escape to my apartment, blast sad music, and fall apart in private like a normal person.
I unlock my phone, my thumb hovering over Maris's contact. What would I even say? "You were right" is too pathetic, even for me.
Instead, I call Angela.
I press my phone to my ear so hard it hurts, grateful when Angela answers on the second ring.
"Hey there, sunshine! I'm hoping you had an amazing night all alone together in that house."
"Yeah, we did have a good night." I force brightness into my voice. It wasn't a lie. We did have an amazing night.
"I wasn't expecting to hear from you this morning." The sound of a spoon clinking against a mug comes through the line. "The boys are still asleep, if you're checking."
"Actually, I was wondering if you needed a teacher's aide today? I saw y'all are going to the museum. I've been wanting to check it out myself." My voice trails off, sounding desperate even to my own ears.
"Mmm-hmm." There's a knowing pause. "Why do I have a feeling something isn't right, here?"
Heat floods my face. "What? No, I just?—"
"Honey, your voice is doing that thing when someone is trying to feign happiness. It's getting all high and squeaky."
"No, of course not! It's just early." I wince at how high and squeaky that comes out.
Angela laughs softly. "Listen, I'm not going to pry. But I will say this. We're leaving here at nine. The Children's Museum has that new dinosaur exhibit Micah's been begging to see. I was going to turn it into our lesson for the day. Come on."
I hesitate, glancing toward my door, imagining Pope downstairs on his calls, moving through his day like nothing happened. Like I wasn't crumbling upstairs.
"I'd like that. I'm going by Citrine first. What can I bring you?"
"Oh, that sounds divine. I'll have the Green Goddess juice, please."
The kindness in her voice nearly breaks me. No questions. No judgment. Just an outstretched hand when I need it most.
"You bet. I'll see you there around nine-fifteen."
"Yay. And Sloane? Whatever's going on, it'll be okay. Maybe not today, but eventually."
I swallow hard. "Thanks, Angela."
I hang up and exhale slowly. My shoulders drop as the tension eases just slightly. Turning toward the mirror on my dresser, I study the woman staring back at me. She looks exhausted. Raw. Like she's already grieving something she never really had.
My reflection doesn't offer any answers, just confirms what I already know: I'm fucked.