Page 105 of Nine Week Nanny
Something shifts in his expression. The mask of professionalism slips, revealing something raw underneath. He opens his mouth like the words are right there, waiting to spill out.
A low moan crackles through the baby monitor, followed by rustling sheets, and then a cry out, "Mommy, Mommy."
My body moves before my brain can intervene. I grab the monitor, already heading for the stairs.
"I'll check on him."
Pope's hand reaches out, almost touching my arm, but stopping short. "Do you want me to?—"
"No, it's fine. I've got it."
I take the stairs two at a time, relief and regret warring in my chest. In Lennon's room, he's twisted in his sheets with his frightened face scrunched.
"Hey, buddy." I smooth his hair, keeping my voice soft. "You're okay."
"Water," he mumbles, eyes half-open.
I help him sip from the cup on his nightstand, straighten his blankets, and sit on the edge of the bed until his breathing evens out again. When I'm certain he's asleep, I remain perched there, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
I should go back downstairs, see what Pope has to say. Maybe he wants to explain, to take back those cruel words.
But what if he doesn't? What if he just wants to use me again?
Minutes tick by. The house settles around me. I lean against the wall beside Lennon's bed, knees pulled to my chest. If I godownstairs, I might fall under Pope's spell again. I might believe whatever explanation he offers because I want to believe it.
So I stay, guarding Lennon's sleep, guarding my heart, until my own eyes grow heavy.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll be stronger.
The doorbell chimesthree times before I reach the front entrance. I square my shoulders and paste on a professional smile. I'm exhausted from the night spent half-sleeping against Lennon's wall, but no one needs to know that.
Tasha Jenkins, the weekend nanny, stands at the door. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled into a neat bun. She wears tailored khakis and a crisp blue button-down, with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm.
"Good morning, Sloane." Her handshake is firm, efficient.
"Hi, Tasha. Good to see you again."
Lennon peeks from behind the staircase, his space t-shirt rumpled from sleep. When he spots Tasha, he shrinks back.
"Good morning, Lennon." Tasha's voice stays warm but measured, not rising to the sugary pitch many adults use with children. "You remember me from last weekend?"
Lennon drifts to my side, pressing against my leg without speaking. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shorts.
"I just finished preparing breakfast," I say, placing a gentle hand on Lennon's shoulder. "You ready to eat, Bud?"
Lennon doesn't answer, but instead presses his face into my thigh.
"Is Mr. Carrigan here this weekend?"
"You know, I'm not sure. I know he's been spending a lot of time at the hospital." I haven't seen Pope all morning. His carwas gone when I woke up. Whatever he's doing, he isn't telling me. I'll let Tasha read the tea leaves, at least for the next two days.
"Will you stay?" Lennon's small voice interrupts, his fingers tightening around mine.
My chest constricts. "No, buddy. Ms. Tasha is here on weekends. Remember? I'll see you Monday morning when you wake up."
His brown eyes, so much like Pope's, brim with confusion. "But who will make pancakes?"
"I can make pancakes," Tasha offers smoothly, crouching to his level. "Do you like blueberries or chocolate chips?"
