Chapter 3
611 Words
Brooklyn POV
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Weston. I can't work for you."
The words came out before I could stop them. Patrick turned from the hallway and looked at me slowly, the way someone does when they're deciding how serious you are.
"Brooklyn." His voice was calm. Too calm. "You are contracted through the nannying agency. They place you where they see fit. You don't get to choose."
"Sir, I understand that, but — "
"If you walk out of this house right now, I will make one phone call." He straightened his cufflinks without breaking eye contact. "And you will never be placed with another family again."
My mouth closed.
Across the room, Emerson dropped his backpack on the floor and stepped forward. "Dad. I know I was late picking Daisy up a couple of times, but we don't need a nanny. I can handle things."
"Emerson." Patrick's tone shifted in a way that made even me go still. "Don't."
"We're fine — "
"You have a bad attitude. You're sleeping through your morning classes. Your grades are slipping." Patrick's voice didn't rise, which somehow made it worse. "Your mother isn't here to keep you in line anymore. So I've found the next best thing."
Emerson's jaw tightened. He looked away.
"Daisy is adjusting well," Patrick continued. "Are you going to get yourself together, or do I need to take back the keys to your car?"
A long silence.
"Fine," Emerson said through his teeth. "But don't blame me when she quits."
I looked straight at him. "You already know I'm not a quitter, Emerson."
He said nothing.
Patrick gestured toward the stairs. "Show Brooklyn the guest room. The agency already dropped her belongings off this afternoon."
Emerson stared at his father for one more second. Then he picked up his backpack and walked past me toward the staircase without a word. I followed, keeping a full step behind him.
Daisy appeared at the top of the stairs, watching us both come up. She looked between me and her brother the way children do when they can sense something is wrong but don't know what. I gave her a small smile. She gave me one back.
Emerson pushed open a door at the end of the hall. Plain room, clean, with my two bags sitting neatly beside the bed.
"There." He turned to leave.
"Emerson — "
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"I know this situation is strange for both of us," I said. "I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. We can make this work without making each other miserable."
He turned around then. Slowly.
He crossed the space between us in three steps and pressed his hand flat against the wall beside my head — the exact same thing he'd done in homeroom that morning. Same posture, same cold eyes.
"Let me be very clear," he said quietly. "I want you out of my school. Out of my house. Out of my life. And I am going to make every single day so unbearable that you'll pack those bags yourself and walk out that door."
I didn't move. I didn't blink.
"Go ahead," I said. "But I'll make your life ten times worse right back. Your father gave me full authority to discipline you. That's in writing, Emerson. So every time you try something, I will come back harder."
He stared at me.
"I need this job," I said. "Which means you cannot scare me out of it. I've already decided."
A beat of silence stretched between us.
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Bring it on, Brooklyn."
- Writer
