Page 97 of Nine Week Nanny
I'd let myself imagine something real. His hands in my hair, his whispers against my skin, the way he held me after we'd made love. That's what I thought it was.
I'd convinced myself it meant something.
God, I'm such an idiot.
I press my face into the pillow, feeling its cool surface against my burning cheeks. "Get it together, Sloane," I whisper fiercely. "Get. It. Together."
The pillow muffles a sound that might be a sob or might be a laugh at my own stupidity. I can't tell anymore.
I shove out of bed, standing on legs that are too weak to hold me. My reflection in the mirror shows puffy eyes and messy hair. I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin.
Fine. I'll be the goddamned nanny. I'll fade into the background of his life, invisible except for when he needs someone to watch Lennon. Professional. Detached. Temporary.
Just like he said.
I take off the tank top from last night that still smells like him and drag a t-shirt over my head with savage force. Every movement is stiff and robotic.
My fingers fumble with my bra clasp, hooking it too tightly against my skin. I wince but don't fix it. The discomfort is appropriate somehow.
The clothes I grab are plain and forgettable. I’m wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue top. Nanny clothes. Professional clothes.
"The goddamned nanny." His words echo, sharper with each mental replay. "Who I fuck." Another jab.
My bare feet slap against the floor as I jerk the duvet into place, smoothing wrinkles with vicious precision. The pillows receive the same treatment, fluffed and positioned with military corners. As if straightening my bed will somehow straighten out the mess inside my head.
"You're so stupid," I whisper to myself, yanking my hair into a knot so tight it pulls at my temples. "So fucking stupid."
I catch a whiff of his cologne on my skin and nearly gag. Last night it had been intoxicating. Now it's just evidence of my mistake.
Maris tried to warn me. "He'll hurt you," she'd said. "Men like that don't see women like us as anything but convenient."
I'd rolled my eyes, so sure I was different, that this was developing into something special.
My throat tightens, a knot of humiliation lodged firmly behind my sternum.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, desperate for someone outside this house to anchor me. Someone whose eyes won't cut through me, whose voice won't remind me of promises whispered in the dark.
The weekend nanny arrives tomorrow morning. Twenty-four hours. I just need to survive twenty-four hours of being invisible, professional, detached. Then I can escape to my apartment, blast sad music, and fall apart in private like a normal person.
I unlock my phone, my thumb hovering over Maris's contact. What would I even say? "You were right" is too pathetic, even for me.
Instead, I call Angela.
I press my phone to my ear so hard it hurts, grateful when Angela answers on the second ring.
"Hey there, sunshine! I'm hoping you had an amazing night all alone together in that house."
"Yeah, we did have a good night." I force brightness into my voice. It wasn't a lie. We did have an amazing night.
"I wasn't expecting to hear from you this morning." The sound of a spoon clinking against a mug comes through the line. "The boys are still asleep, if you're checking."
"Actually, I was wondering if you needed a teacher's aide today? I saw y'all are going to the museum. I've been wanting to check it out myself." My voice trails off, sounding desperate even to my own ears.
"Mmm-hmm." There's a knowing pause. "Why do I have a feeling something isn't right, here?"
Heat floods my face. "What? No, I just?—"
"Honey, your voice is doing that thing when someone is trying to feign happiness. It's getting all high and squeaky."
