Page 36 of Nine Week Nanny
My dress shoes click against the floor as I move through the kitchen. The coffee is already brewing thanks to the timer the housekeeper sets every afternoon before leaving. A calculated escape before anyone stirs works best for all involved.
I grab my keys with enough force that they bite into my palm. My jaw tightens as I mentally scroll through the clusterfuck that is my life right now.
A week ago, I was analyzing the Good Samaritan takeover, my three-year plan locked in place. Now I'm raising a seven-year-old who barely speaks, and I've hired the woman I fucked senseless to be his nanny.
My fingers flex around the steering wheel as I back out of the driveway. The memory of her face when she realized who I was during the interview flickers through my mind. The shock. The anger. The flash of something else I refuse to acknowledge.
The coastal highway unfolds before me, a pristine stretch of asphalt bordered by palm trees and multimillion-dollar properties. Morning light spills across the water to my right, turning it into a canvas of gold and blue. I barely register any of it.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s a text from Camila.
Morning. How is Lennon adjusting? He told me on the phone he was nervous about sleeping in a new room. Just checking in.
I type back at the red light.
Quiet. Too quiet. But he stayed in bed. Thanks for calling him—it helped.
She sends back a simple heart emoji before I drop the phone facedown.
I’ve got to meet with the attorney today to sign the power of attorney for the closing docs. I’m still technically a renter at my house until everyone signs later this week. It makes no difference to me. An extra thirty thousand to move in before closing was worth it.
All of this is moving so fast.
My mind ticks through the avalanche of responsibilities. I’ve got a board meeting at nine, and a staff restructuring proposal due by noon. Three calls with investors who are getting antsy about the acquisition timeline are also wedged in there somewhere.
Somehow, between all that, I need to go by the attorney's office and review the temporary guardianship paperwork and submit it to the court by Friday.
"Fuck," I hiss as I hit a red light, drumming my fingers against the wheel. I've already rescheduled two meetings since Lennon arrived. Time I don't have, bleeding away.
Then there's her, in my house, with her warm eyes and that mouth that...
I slam the brakes on that thought. Hard.
The light turns green and I accelerate quickly, the engine growling in response. My phone buzzes with a calendar alert for Lennon's first therapy appointment tomorrow. Another hour I'll need to carve from somewhere, since I'll be taking him to give Sloane her time off.
I can't believe I got myself into this.
I pull into the parking garage beneath my office building, the clinical fluorescent lights washing over the car. As I step out, my shoulders drop a fraction. This, at least, is territory I understand. My space, my rules, my control.
Here, I can pretend the rest isn't happening.
The elevator doors whisper open onto the thirty-second floor. No receptionist yet. It's barely six-thirty. Good. The fewer witnesses to my early morning escape, the better.
I swipe my keycard across the sensor, and the glass doors to Carrigan Health Group slide open with a soft hiss. My footsteps echo across polished concrete as I move through the reception area, past the sleek furniture no one ever sits in long enough to wrinkle.
My office sits at the corner of the building, wall-to-wall windows framing the Atlantic. The ocean view cost me an extra twenty percent on the lease, but I don’t regret it. If I’m going to be away from Denver for the next eighteen to twenty-four months, trading the mountains for this coastline, I’ll take whatever comfort I can get. And right now, that means water stretching to the horizon while I manage the conversion of Good Samaritan from a traditional hospital into a concierge model.
I shrug off my jacket, draping it over the back of my ergonomic chair. The familiar weight lifts from my shoulders, and for a split second, I can breathe again.
My laptop wakes with a touch, revealing forty-seven new emails since midnight. Another twelve texts from Caleb about the investor presentation.
I crack my knuckles and dive in, fingers flying across the keyboard. Delete. Forward. Flag for follow-up. My mind clicks into the familiar rhythm, each decision crisp and efficient.
"Dr. Reismann is threatening to walk if we change the oncology protocols." The Denver operations team needs guidance.
-Tell him he's welcome to walk straight to unemployment if he can't adapt. The protocols stay.
"Construction delays in the east wing renovation." Facilities management needs approval for overtime.
