Chapter 8 Sniffles
Chapter Eight
SNIFFLES
Griffin
My days went by in a blur, living and dying by my carefully constructed schedule. But today, one phone call shattered my perfect plans before breakfast.
“I’m sorry.” Jessa’s voice croaked into the phone. Cough, cough. Sniffle. “I don’t think I should be around Theo today.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, tension already knotting my shoulders. “Jessa, this couldn’t come at a worse time. I have back-to-back meetings until seven. Theo has a strong immune system—we’ll just load him up on vitamin C.”
“Okay.” Another cough, followed by a throat-clearing rasp that sounded painful. “Can you have Brock drop him off at school this morning? I’ll probably feel better this afternoon.”
She sneezed, with a small and miserable rasp through the phone.
Christ. She really did sound awful.
“Yeah. Take the day and rest,” I said, adjusting my tie—a nervous habit I despised. “Is there anything you need? I can have Brock drop supplies at your place.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
That word. Fine. Women used it like armor when they were anything but.
I exhaled, forcing patience into my voice. “Look, Jessa. You’re the first nanny Theo’s actually liked in over a year. I need you healthy. We still haven’t had that talk, but work’s been—”
“You don’t have to explain.” Her voice cracked. “I should go rest. Thanks for understanding.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, irritation prickling under my skin. She’d been with us less than a week and had already disrupted carefully laid plans. No daily check-in texts, like I’d asked. No updates. Just radio silence until she was too sick to show up.
I pulled up a delivery app and started adding items to the cart—cold medicine, throat lozenges, chicken noodle soup, a plush blanket. Flowers. Did sick people want flowers? I added a bouquet of sunflowers, anyway. Make that three. Why stop at one vase when three can really brighten a room?
I punched in the Queens address from her nanny application.
“Theo!” I called down the hall. “Let’s go. Brock’s waiting.”
My son appeared in the doorway, hockey bag slung over one shoulder, frowning. “Where’s Jessa?”
“She caught a cold. Nothing serious.”
“So she’s going to miss my game tonight?” His face fell, and guilt twisted in my chest like a knife.
“Uncle Atlas will be there.”
“What about you, Dad?”
I crouched to his level, meeting those gray-blue eyes—the same ones I saw in the mirror every morning. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I know I’ve been swamped lately. But it’s almost over. When this deal closes, we’ll take a vacation. Just the two of us. You pick the place.”
He crossed his arms, glaring at me—the kind that felt louder than shouting. The dad-guilt kicked in.
We rode the elevator down in tense silence. Brock waited at the curb, engine idling. Theo climbed into the backseat without a word. I followed, checking my phone for the hundredth time that morning.
“School first, then straight to the office,” I told Brock.
“Yes, sir.” I could always count on him to do what needed done with little chatter about it. Not that I needed “yes, sir” people all around me. But it certainly helped not to have someone challenge me.
We pulled into traffic, the city waking up in bursts of honking horns. I opened my email, scanning the latest updates from Sam—another revision to the IPO timeline, another request for a “family interview” by the New Yorker show.
Then Theo sat up straighter, craning his neck out the window. “Hey. I thought you said Jessa was sick?”
“She is.”
“Then why did we just pass her getting into that old car?”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“It looked like her, sir,” Brock confirmed, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“Stop the car.”
He pulled over immediately, double-parking as horns blared behind us. I was out the door before I could think. I jogged back down the block, scanning every parked vehicle.
Her ancient sedan with peeling paint and a cracked taillight stopped me cold. Inside, bundled under a blanket and what looked like three jackets and other various items of clothing, sat Jessa. Her hands clutched a to-go coffee cup as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
I knocked on the window.
She jumped, eyes going wide.
“Get out,” I said, voice flat.
She hesitated, then cracked the door open when there was a space between traffic passing by. She stepped onto the curb, pulling her coat tighter. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy and glassy, probably with fever, and her hands ran up and down her arms to warm herself.
“What the hell is this, Jessa?” I gestured at the car, eyeing the pile of clothes visible through the back window.
“I told you I don’t feel well.” She coughed into the sleeve, voice hoarse. “I might be running a temperature.”
“But you drove here from Queens?” I slipped out of my trench and wrapped it around her shoulders. I pressed the back of my hand to her forehead. Heat radiated off her skin—the first time I’d touched her since that night at the lake, and even sick, the contact still sent a jolt through me.
My gaze dropped to the interior of her car. Fast-food wrappers. A duffel bag. A pillow wedged against the passenger seat.
A cold weight settled in my gut. “Are you sleeping in your car?”
She looked away, coughing again, and confirmed nothing.
“Jessa.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “What’s going on?”
“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like, living in the real world.
I came here with almost nothing. I wasn’t planning to stay unless…
” Her words came tumbling out, sounding bitterly exhausted.
“Then you hired me, and everything happened so fast. But the first paycheck doesn’t come for two weeks.
I couldn’t afford to stay in that pay-by-day hotel in Queens another night. ”
“Why didn’t you say something?” I yanked out my wallet, pulling a stack of hundreds. “I would’ve given you an advance.”
“It’s not about the money, Griffin.” She swayed slightly, and I caught her elbow. “I’m— I’m—”
Her knees buckled.
“Jessa.” I caught her, steadying her. She trembled from fever or cold or both. “How long have you been sleeping out here?”
She wouldn’t answer.
Didn’t matter if it was one night or more. She’d been sleeping in her car. I couldn’t have Theo’s nanny homeless.
“This was a mistake,” she whispered. “I should go back to Holly Creek.”
“Like hell you will.” I steadied her against the car and opened her door. I grabbed a shopping bag inside and shoved clothes into it. “You’re staying at my place for now.”
“You don’t understand—”
“What don’t I understand?” I turned on her, frustration boiling over. “You’re homeless, Jessa. Do you think that’s acceptable? That I’d let the woman watching my son live like this?”
She flinched, and guilt stabbed through me. But she didn’t understand how it would look for me if people found out.
I softened my tone. “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of everything. Can you walk back to the building with me?”
She nodded, eyes wet.
We started down the sidewalk, her steps unsteady. She shivered so violently I couldn’t stand it. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against my side.
“I’ll have soup and medicine delivered,” I said. “Do you need a doctor?”
“It’s just a cold or a little bug.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t want to leave germs all over your place. What if Theo—”
“I’ll call the cleaning service for an extra visit. We’ll boost his vitamins. He has a tough immune system. He’ll be fine.” I tightened my grip on her. “He’ll be upset you’ll miss his game tonight.”
“Me too.”
We were nearly at the door when two men with cameras materialized out of nowhere, lenses flashing. They called out: “Mr. West! Who’s the new girlfriend? Is this the blonde you left Club Neon with two nights ago?”
Fucking Atlas.
“That was my brother,” I barked, steering Jessa toward the entrance. She ducked her head against my chest, and I felt her trembling harder. “Back off, please.”
McDaniels held the door wide for us, always alert for my comings and goings, and we slipped inside. The elevator stood open, security already clearing the way. I pulled Jessa in, and the doors slid shut. She sagged against the wall, coughing.
I stood in front of her, one hand braced on the wall. Fury—with protectiveness, and possessiveness—surged through me. “I’m sorry about the photographers.”
“It’s fine.”
There was that word again.
“It’s not fine,” I argued. “And neither is this.” I gestured at her, at the duffel bag, at the situation spiraling beyond my control. “You should’ve told me.”
“Why?” She met my eyes, defiant even through the fever. “So you could swoop in and fix it? I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life, Griffin. I don’t need—” She laughed and the elevator dinged.
“What you need is rest in a warm home. Let’s get you inside,” I said, cutting off whatever protest she was building. “We’ll argue later.”
I got her into the guest room at the far end of the hall—two doors down from my master bedroom, and even that might not be enough to keep me from her after hours.
Spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, I set her duffel on the bed and shifted the blinds down lower to darken the room a little so she could sleep.
“You’ve got your own bathroom through there. A closet here.” I opened the doors, and then turned down the bed linens.
She stepped inside the closet, eyes widening.
It was bigger than most studio apartments in Queens—custom shelving, soft lighting, more space than anyone needed for a week’s worth of clothes.
I caught the way her gaze darted around, taking it all in.
I hadn’t even given a thought to what she might be going through coming here from her small town.
Fuck, why’d I have to be such a self-centered, entitled prick?
She toured the bathroom next. Dual rainfall shower heads. A soaking tub. Marble counters with double sinks.
She stared for a long moment, then turned to me. “This is a lot to take in.”