Page 33 of Nine Week Nanny
My apartment looks like a department store exploded. Clothes drape off chairs, pile on the couch, and spill across the floor like they tried to make a break for it. The suitcase on my bed is already overstuffed, and I haven’t even gotten to my therapy materials.
I look at my canvas tote full of games, books, and tools that I know could help Lennon navigate losing his mom. If nothing else, they will be good ice breakers for us to start to build trust.
“Professional,” I murmur, folding a beige cardigan like it’s a talisman. “Keep it professional.”
My phone buzzes with Maris’s custom chime. I tap the speaker.
"Whisk me away to the days when our most important decision was whether to go to The Esso Club or write an essay."
“Those were the days. Any word about the job?”
“Yes, I have to be there tomorrow. I’m trying to figure out what to take.”
“Packing?”
“Trying to,” I say, tossing a pair of jeans into the “off-hours” pile. “It’s harder than you think to figure out what to bring when you’re moving in with your one-night stand… and his grieving seven-year-old.”
"Grieving?"
"Yes, the lady from the agency just told me his mom recently passed away from cancer. I guess that explains why Pope seems like a deer in headlights and told me he didn't have children. I have a hunch he was an absent father and is now being thrust into this."
"Jesus."
"I know."
“You've got this,” she says. “You can keep this professional. Focus on the kid. Forget Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome-in-all-the-ways-that-count. Nine weeks.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “As I told you, yesterday’s meeting was awkward, at best. I'll even go so far as to say it was weird. We barely made eye contact. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it was me.”
“Oh, he remembers,” she says dryly. “I do not doubt that.”
My neck heats instantly, like she cranked a furnace under my skin.
Her tone goes mock-thoughtful. “Maybe sleeping with your boss is a pre-interview advantage. It evens the playing field a little. Keep your chin up and be the badass you always are.”
“My heart is broken for this sweet little boy. I need to keep my focus on helping him through this time.”
“Atta girl. Besides that minor detail of intimately knowing your new boss, are you feeling good about being able to help Lennon?”
I sink onto the bed, cardigan still in my lap. “Honestly, I'm terrified. This feels like some mash-up of a clinical rotation and an emotional minefield. And I want to be what Lennon needs, but…”
“But you’re worried about Pope,” she finishes for me.
I don’t answer. Which is answer enough.
Maris sighs. “I think everything happens for a reason. Lennon’s lucky to have you if he barely knows his father and has lost his mother. You know how to give stability and warmth better than anyone I know.”
Her words should steady me. Instead, “stability” makes me think of Pope’s hands gripping my hips, and my pulse jumps.
“I need a lobotomy.”
She snorts. “You’ve got this.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fake it until you make it, right?”
“Sorry,” she says. “Now zip that bag and get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
She’s right. I close the zipper, glance at the clock, and swallow the knot in my throat. 5:30 AM is going to hurt.
