Page 87 of Nine Week Nanny
"Lennon," Chris's voice hardens slightly, "answer your father."
My fists clench under the table. Every cell in my body screams to intervene, but Ms. Black's pen never stops moving. Her eyes miss nothing.
The next twenty minutes are torture. Chris alternates between forced cheerfulness and thinly veiled frustration at Lennon's silence. Each time he glances at Ms. Black, his expression shifts to practiced concern.
"I just want what's best for my son," he tells her, squeezing Lennon's shoulder. "A boy needs his father, not some temporary guardian who's too busy with his fancy business to be around."
Metallic burns my throat from biting the inside of my cheek.
Finally, Ms. Black closes her notebook. "Thank you all. I believe I have what I need for this initial evaluation."
Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Lennon darts back to my side the moment he's dismissed and buries his face in my side.
As we prepare to leave, the air crackles with unspoken threats. Chris watches us, his eyes hard despite his smile.
Outside the conference room, I wrap my arm around Lennon's shoulders, guiding him toward the exit. Ms. Black trails behind us, her notebook still clutched in her hand.
Chris catches up, his loafers squeaking against the linoleum floor of the courthouse foyer.
"Let me walk you out," he says, voice dripping with false sincerity.
My shoulders stiffen, and I stop, not wanting to walk anywhere with this man. Lennon presses closer to my side, his small body tensing.
Chris faces me, leaning in slightly until his shoulder brushes mine. The smell of his cologne brings back memories I've spent decades trying to forget.
"You won't win," he whispers, venom in his voice meant only for me. "I'm his father, and that's all the judge will care about. You're an arrogant fool just like always, thinking you could swoop in like some white knight."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. The fury floods my system. It's a live wire inside me, sparking against every organ, threatening to short-circuit my control.
I don't answer and offer a shitass grin instead. I won't say what I want to say to him with Lennon right here. Not with Ms. Black watching our every move from across the hallway, her expression flat and her pen still poised in her hand.
Chris's smile widens at my silence, taking it as victory. He thinks I'm the same scared kid he used to terrorize. The same boy who froze when confronted.
Lennon slips his small hand into mine, his fingers clammy and fragile. The simple gesture screams louder than any words could. He's choosing me, instinctively seeking safety where he feels it exists.
Chris notices. His eyes narrow, darting to our joined hands.
"I'll see you real soon, sport," he says to Lennon as he kneels, his voice suddenly sticky with forced affection. "Your dad's gonna make sure we spend lots of time together."
Lennon's grip tightens around my fingers.
"Mr. Carrigan." Ms. Black's voice cuts through the tension. "A moment, please."
We both turn our heads, and she clarifies. "Mr. Christopher Carrigan."
Chris turns to me and winks before turning toward her. "Duty calls."
As he walks away, the pressure in my head threatens to explode. I want to grab him by his collar, slam him against the wall, and make him understand what will happen if he ever comes near Lennon again.
Instead, I squeeze Lennon's hand gently and continue walking toward the exit.
"Let's go home," I whisper to Lennon, feeling the full weight of that word for the first time.
TWENTY-THREE
Sloane
"This place smells like fresh basil all the time," Angela smiles as she glances around. "Warms the soul, doesn’t it?"
