Page 37 of Nine Week Nanny
-Approved. Get it done.
"Revenue projections for Q3 need revision after Medicare changes." Finance needs my sign-off.
-Schedule a call for 2 PM.
The office is quiet, just the muted hum of the HVAC. At 6:45, there’s a knock, two quick taps, before the door opens.
It’s Dennis from IT, clutching a travel mug and his tablet. “Morning, boss. Got an alert that your VPN session dropped twice last night. I have a work order to make sure your home office is set up with the server, as well. I can go there after lunch if that works?”
I keep my eyes on the screen. “No issues. I just logged out early. As for the home office, yes, please take care of that. I’ll let my house staff know you’re coming. I won't be working there much, but if something comes up after hours, I want to be able to take care of it from there.”
He nods, not pressing. “Alright. I’ll run the network tests and get out of your hair. As for the home stuff, I'll let you know when we’re done. I can do most from here, but will need to run some things on site, as well.”
I nod and step away from the desk while finishing my emails on my phone.
When he leaves, the silence is heavier, somehow, than it was before. I sit down and push harder into the inbox.
By the time Tara appears at precisely eight, the sun has filled the room, painting the walls gold. She taps lightly on the door frame.
“Good morning, Mr. Carrigan. Coffee?”
I glance up briefly. "Black. And reschedule my lunch with the board chair. I have to go meet with an attorney, and that is the only place I can squeeze it in."
"Of course. Will you be leaving early again today for..." She hesitates.
"Family obligations. Yes."
The wordfamilyis foreign in my mouth, like I'm speaking someone else's language.
Tara is efficient and steady. She’s perfect for Palm Beach logistics, but she’s not Lenoir. Lenoir runs my calendar in Denver, orchestrates travel, and controls the moving parts. Tara just keeps things humming here on the ground.
When she's gone, I return to the spreadsheets, finding comfort in their rigid columns and predictable formulas. No confused seven-year-olds here. No hazel-eyed women with curves that haunt my thoughts. Just numbers. Control.
My phone buzzes. The building manager's name, Steve Bellamy, flashes on the screen. I frown. Why the hell is he calling?
"Carrigan."
"Mr. Carrigan, we've got a situation in the building that affects your suite." The manager's voice carries the strained politeness of someone delivering bad news.
I straighten in my chair, already feeling the day sliding sideways. "What kind of situation?"
"Water damage, sir. The law firm that takes up the entire floor above you had a bathroom pipe burst, and it went undetected for enough time to create a major water problem. If it hasn't seeped through their floor into your ceiling, yet, it's about to burst through."
My fingers tighten around the phone. "Surely you can mitigate before it becomes a problem, right?"
"That's the plan. But I can't let you stay there today." His voice drops an octave, the way people do when they know they're about to get yelled at.
"Are you serious?"
"My primary concern is the electricity. We've got electricians coming to make sure nothing shorts out. There's a good chance we may have to replace most or all of the drywall if the water is behind the walls. We won't know until we can get in there to assess the damage. It's going to be loud at best, and a war zone at worst."
The edge of my desk digs into my palm as I grip it. A dull throb begins at my temples, spreading outward like ink in water.
"You're telling me my entire office is unusable? Today of all fucking days?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. I apologize. Safety protocols. We'll know more by the end of the day, but for now, can you work remotely?"
The investor presentation. The board meeting. The calls that can't be done from home with a seven-year-old and his nanny within earshot.
