Page 52 of Nine Week Nanny
I listen, straining against the thick silence. Maybe it was a dream.
The digital clock on my nightstand reads 2:17. The house settles around me, creaking softly with the ocean breeze. Beyond my balcony doors, I can hear the waves crash against the shore.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet meeting cool hardwood. I need some water.
The hallway stretches before me, bathed in faint moonlight filtering through the windows. I move silently, careful not to let the floorboards announce my presence.
Passing Lennon's room, I pause. His door stands slightly ajar, just as we leave it each night. I peer inside, make out his small form curled beneath his sheets, chest rising and falling steadily.
Not Lennon, then.
The kitchen beckons with its promise of water, something to clear the fog of interrupted sleep from my brain. I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it from the filtered tap, and lean against the counter. The cold glass sweats against my palm, droplets sliding between my fingers.
My eyes land on the table we shared dinner. He was so lively, so happy tonight. It’s the first time he’s really talked to me.
Sloane was right, this program must have been just what he needed.
Something about the way she looked at Lennon and me across the table, something unreadable passing behind her eyes, sticks with me.
This arrangement is temporary. I know this. She knows this. Yet something about tonight felt settled. Domestic, even. The thought should send me running.
Instead, I find myself lingering over it.
I drain the water, set the glass in the sink. The quiet presses in around me, loaded with potential energy. Like a bowstring drawn back, waiting to snap.
I need to get back to bed. Tomorrow brings back-to-back investor calls and a strategy meeting with the hospital board. I can't afford to be off my game.
I head upstairs toward my room when a figure materializes directly in my path. We nearly collide, a startled breath escaping us both.
"Sloane?"
She stands before me in the half-light, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing what appears to be an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes widen with surprise.
Her bare feet shift against the hardwood as she steadies herself, her eyes half-asleep like mine. The hem of her shirt, definitely oversized, definitely soft, brushes against my forearm. Heat radiates from her skin.
"I was just checking on Lennon." Her voice comes out a whisper, rough with sleep.
“Is everything okay?”
“He woke up crying. He must have been having a bad dream, I think, because he never fully woke up. I helped him until he calmed down."
My eyes adjust to the darkness, picking out details. The curve of her collarbone, where her shirt hangs loose. The slight tangle in her hair. The way her eyes reflect what little light filters through the hallway window.
“He’s back asleep, now?"
"He settled back down pretty quickly. He never fully woke up and is sound asleep." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we're standing.
"Good. That's good."
Neither of us moves. The space between us is electric, like the air during a storm before the lightning strikes. The scent of her lotion drifts between us. It’s soft and floral.
Suddenly, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My pulse thuds heavily and insistently in my throat.
What would happen if I leaned down, if I closed that small gap between us, and kissed her?
The thought alone makes heat pool low in my stomach.
