HOLT

I had been planning to give her a raise. While reviewing Allie’s daily briefing notes, I stopped at the one about Wes. Looks like he got in trouble at school. Again.

This is a fairly common occurrence—or at least it used to be. But I hadn’t seen a “Wes incident” in the report in over two months. Not since Sylvie took over as his nanny. I clicked on my IM screen and sent Allie a quick text: “What happened with Wes? Is he suspended?

“No!” came Allie’s immediate answer. “When I called to check in, Sylvie said he apologized and worked it out with the teacher.”

Wes… a Calson… apologized. Moreover, Wes took the steps to handle the situation rather than let it be handled by someone else.

I could hardly believe it. As unreligious as I am, I could not help but think this was a goddamn miracle. A goddamn miracle only Sylvie could have brought about.

I drove home with a new plan in my head.

I would offer to pay for her classes at CIT. And though I am a Calson, I would humble myself enough to tell her Wes truly needed her, and she was wrong about not having enough skills to help my son thrive. He was thriving—all because of her. I even came home a little earlier than usual to talk with her.

But then the smell hit me. Both sweet and savory. Like nothing that had been cooked in this house before. And it threw me back ten years to another time and place.

“You don’t have to put all this effort into my friends, you know,” I say coming up behind Sylvie to wrap my arms around her after I find her preparing what looks like a small feast in the penthouse kitchen. I rub my face against her coarse crown braids. Liking the smell of her hair, if not the smell of the plantains she is slicing.

“See, this is the difference between Americans and Jamaicans. If a Jamaican boyfriend invites his best friends to his house and his girlfriend makes nothing, there will be big problems, let me tell you now.”

“But my friends aren’t Jamaican,” I point out. And despite the many cultural differences between myself and my former suitemates, I know one thing for sure. “None of them expect you to cook.”

“But I want to cook,” she confesses. “It helps me feel not so nervous. About announcing what we plan to do today…you know?”

No, I do not know. I’m Holt Calson. People don’t make me nervous. Only Sylvie. Which is why I need Luca to get here fast—not just to accompany us to the courthouse, but to provide me with something—anything—to calm my shaking hands.

I had intended to stay sober today, even though I had to go outside. But my hands started to shake this morning, so bad I couldn’t shave like I told Sylvie I would before the ceremony.

I needed something. “Anything,” I texted Luca earlier. But he hadn’t arrived yet, and I am on my third beer, trying to stave off the withdrawal symptoms. If I am being honest, I am more nervous than Sylvie, but my reasons aren’t nearly as innocent as hers. And that nervousness makes me text Luca a second time, “Where the hell are you, man?” before I grab another beer.

Wes raises his voice and my memory shatters. I quicken my pace toward the kitchen and the reason for Wes’s shouting soon becomes evident.

And now it’s not nervousness I feel seated on one side of my desk while Sylvie takes a seat on the other. We have moved the conversation to a more formal setting after sending the boys to Wes’s room. But it’s not formal enough. As angry as I am at her, I can’t stop remembering what happened the last time we were here in my office together. How I accepted her proposal with a physical contract signed, sealed, and delivered on this very desk.

Maybe Sylvie is thinking about it, too. Because she is perched uncomfortably on her chair as if her jeans and t-shirt aren’t giving her enough coverage. She’s right about that. After a whole week of not having her in my bed, seeing her in simple clothes has turned my dick to hot stone in my pants.

But I focus on my anger instead. “Not only did you not bother to show up at my room for a week straight, you are planning to quit, too?”

“I am not planning to quit,” she answers calmly. “This conversation right here serves as my official two weeks notice.”

I shake my head at her. “Don’t you ever get tired of running, little rabbit?”

“I am not running,” she insists.

“Yes, you are,” I insist right back. “You’ve been running from the start of our relationship. It is as if running is your answer to everything. Is there a problem? Time to scurry!”

I can tell I hit a mark because for a few seconds, Sylvie’s normally placid face twists with anger. Like it did in the restaurant bathroom last week. But then she catches herself.

“Holt, I am not here to argue with you,” her voice is tight with the effort it must take her to stay calm. “I am giving you my two weeks notice, and that is the end of it.”

I stare at her for a cold, blank second before saying, “I assume you have found a new job. Behind my back.”

She clamps her lips closed before admitting, “Yes, and I am sorry this is how you have to find out about it. I planned to write you a letter—”

“Who is it with?”

She pauses, then says, “It is a very exciting opportunity for me to learn and grow while I pursue my Masters at CIT.”

“Who’s it with?” I repeat, wanting a name so I can tank this “opportunity” of hers.

“And of course I’ll be training Mika, who I believe you already met,” she continues as if I’ve said nothing. “She is recently widowed and has a young son. He is six, but I think Wes will enjoy having someone who looks up to him the way he looks up to Barron. For these reasons and more, I truly believe Wes will be in excellent hands.”

This has officially become a business meeting. I lean back and let her peter out and stew under my hard stare for a good, uncomfortable minute before I ask, “Would you rather call whoever offered you this job and turn it down politely, or be embarrassed when you are fired? Again.”

Sylvie shakes her head. “Even if you get me fired from this job, I am not coming back. This is my two weeks notice. I will starve on the street while Barron attends CIT if I have to. But I am leaving this house in two weeks and I will not be coming back.”

She is calling my bluff. All too well. I change tactics. “Look, this doesn’t have to be a big fight. You want to go to college. Stay on with Wes while you do and I’ll give you the money to pay for your degree.”

She doesn’t even think about my offer before she hits back with a hard, “No.”

I blink. “Why not?”

“Because I am not taking any more Calson money,” she answers. “For anything. And because I want to do this on my own. I want to be in charge of my education and finally achieve my dream. Even if it is too late for my mother to forgive me or my father to see it.”

Several seconds tick by. Tense and fraught. “Do you really hate me now?”

Sylvie jolts. I guess she wasn’t expecting this turn in the conversation. But isn’t that what we’re really talking about? What every conversation has been about since we first met? The past. The present. Our future.

“No, Holt. I do not really hate you,” she answers quietly. “But I do not like this. I do not like who either of us becomes when we are with each other. And I wonder if we both misunderstood that summer. We thought we were a great love story, but I failed you in more ways than I can count. I do not hate you. But I understand why you hate me. Why you want to punish me again and again for what I did. Understanding this will not change what happened. And no sexual arrangement will ever be enough to erase the bitterness from our minds. I believe it is better for us to part ways…”

Part ways…

It makes sense. All too well.

But when I open my mouth to reply, the words, “One weekend,” fall out.

“One weekend,” she repeats, scrunching her face in that adorably confused way I used to love.

“You say this new nanny you’ve selected is up for the job. Let’s test her. I have my Arkansas board meeting next Friday, then a fundraiser for the local botanical gardens afterwards.”

“Yes, I know. I saw it in the schedule Allie sent over for this month. Of course, I will take care of Wes this weekend. And I will have Mika there, too.”

“No, you won’t. You will come with me to Arkansas. Mika will stay here. One weekend,” I repeat with a significant look.

Then in case she is still not getting it, I say, “Come to Arkansas with me for the weekend. If you still want to quit, I will let you go with a recommendation letter and severance pay. Just give me the weekend, and then I swear on my mother’s grave I will leave you alone.”

One weekend…

My hunger…my need…it has to be written clear across my face because her eyes drop away like they used to when we were young. So young. Too young. I am finally beginning to see that now.

She lets out a shuddering breath and asks, “Will I have my own room?”

“No,” I say. Final answer clear in my tone. And just so she’s clear, I add, “You’ll be sharing a room—and a bed—with me.”

I tell her my terms. Then I wait to see how she will respond to my proposal.