Page 12 of Nine Week Nanny
The line crackles. My phone flashes the low battery warning again, then goes black.
“Dammit.”
The Uber app is gone with it. My heels click on the marble as I step into the lobby, the first gray light of morning spilling through the glass doors.
God, please let my car still be en route. If he cancels, I’m screwed.
I keep walking, hugging my bag closer. The air in here is too crisp, too clean, after the heat of his hands and his mouth.
Outside, the sky is paling over palm fronds and empty streets. The magic didn’t follow me out the door, so it appears.
I have no job, no friends here, and a lease I can’t afford.
To add to that, now I have a phone that’s as dead as the plan I thought I had for my life.
FOUR
Pope
The numbers on the spreadsheet blur together as I stare at my monitor. Good Samaritan's financials need restructuring before Monday's board meeting, but my focus keeps slipping.
My mouth waters at the memory of dark hair spilling across my pillow. A laugh that cut through the bullshit. The warmth of her skin under my hands.
She was gone before dawn, no note, no awkward goodbyes. Clean and uncomplicated. Exactly how I like it.
I refocus on the proposal glowing on my screen. The east wing needs a twenty-million-dollar overhaul to convert it into private suites with concierge service.
On paper, Good Samaritan could handle it. In my head, I’m already picturing the name on the donor wall:Carrigan Health Group – Palm Beach.
My phone buzzes against the glass desktop. It's an unknown number with an area code I don't immediately recognize, but I'm almost certain it's a Florida number. It's probably another vendor trying to get ahead of the bid process. I let it ring through to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, it buzzes again. Same number.
I ignore it, marking up another section of the proposal. The phone falls silent.
Then it starts again.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter, grabbing it on the fourth ring. "Pope Carrigan."
"Mr. Carrigan." It's a woman’s voice, steady, no bullshit. "My name is Camila Reyes. I’m Maria Lopez’s cousin."
The name pings somewhere in the back of my head, faint and out of reach. Someone from years ago? I can’t place it.
"I’m not sure I?—"
"Maria died three days ago. Cancer." No preamble. Just facts. "She was Lennon’s mother."
And there it is. The memory slots into place like a punch to the ribs. I remember Maria, a young mother, around my age, holding an infant while my father grinned like he’d found redemption.
Maria was my father's third wife. Lennon is their son, my half-brother, whom I only met once.
My jaw tightens. I swivel my chair toward the window, watching a yacht glide along the Intracoastal. The sunlight reflects off the water in sharp, white fragments.
"I'm listening." My voice stays cool, controlled.
"It's about Lennon."
Lennon. Maria and my father had brought him to Denver when he was maybe six months old. She'd had this hopeful smile, like maybe I could be the bridge between her son and the Carrigan side of his family.
