Page 22 of Nine Week Nanny
Hart's eyebrows lift. "Smart move."
"They matched me with someone yesterday. She's starting tomorrow if the meeting goes well later today. Camila and Lennon will be there to meet the nanny. We need to get him settled right away."
"Tell us about her." Val leans forward, elbows on the table.
"She's twenty-five, has a master's degree in behavioral therapy. She's waiting to start a permanent position in the fall. She's overqualified, which is exactly what I need right now."
Val's eyes light up with a mischievous gleam. "That sounds like a good person to have in your court."
"She might be too good to be true. We will see."
"The child needs someone with real credentials after what he's been through," Hart interjects.
Val drums her fingers on the table. "How well does Lennon know you, anyway?"
The question hits a nerve. "He doesn't. I met him once when he was a baby."
Hart frowns. "So you're essentially a stranger taking custody."
"Yes."
"That poor boy." Her voice softens. "A mother gone, shipped off to live with a half-brother he doesn't know."
"I know it's not ideal." My jaw tightens. "But it's better than Chris."
"A low bar, honey." Val's words are sharp and unapologetic.
"The nanny will help with the transition."
"When will he get here?" Hart asks.
"Camila and the court-appointed guardian ad litem are en route now with Lennon. I'm flying them here from Jacksonville." My stomach knots at the thought.
“”Oh, wow.”
I’m leaving here to meet them at the Palm Beach International Airport. They will both be there to meet the nanny, which is why all of this is happening so fast."
I check my watch and stand. "Speaking of, I should get going."
"Good luck," Hart says, genuinely.
Val rises to hug me. "Call us when he's settled. Hart and I will make a trip up to meet him and spend some time with you."
The ground crewfinalizes preparations for the jet's arrival. My attention locks on the empty sky where the chartered plane should appear any moment.
Sweat beads at my temples despite the air conditioning in the private terminal. Wiping it away, I step outside where the hot Florida air hits like a physical force.
I roll up my sleeves, the fabric of my custom shirt suddenly restrictive. The control I usually maintain becomes more tenuous with every passing minute.
The distant hum of engines grows louder. I spot the silver body of the jet breaking through clouds, sunlight glinting off its polished surface. My chest tightens.
The black SUV that drove me here idles nearby. The driver nods at me when he sees me looking before returning his attention forward. At least something is going according to plan.
The plane touches down with practiced precision, taxiing toward our position. I slip my phone into my pocket, refusing to check emails that can wait. I didn't expect to be so nervous about meeting him.
As the aircraft door opens and the steps unfold, I straighten my posture and try to arrange my face into something approachable. Friendly, even. The role is more foreign than I even imagined.
A woman steps out first, dark hair pulled back, dressed in slacks and a blouse. There’s a quiet efficiency in the way she moves, but the strain on her face says it’s been a long week.
