Chapter 5

Brooklyn's pov

"Here is the deal."

Emerson leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, voice low enough that Daisy couldn't hear from the dining room. He looked completely relaxed, like he negotiated truces every morning before breakfast.

"I stay out of your way," he said, "so you're free to do whatever nanny things you do with Daisy." He moved as he spoke, slowly, stepping closer until he was right in front of me. His hand dropped from his side and slid — deliberately, unhurried — from my shoulder down to my palm. "I won't cause you any problems at home."

I looked down at his hand. Then up at him.

"And in return," he continued, "you stay out of my business. And you tell my dad I've been a good boy."

Before I could answer, his fingers dipped into my hoodie pocket and he pulled me forward by it, closing the last bit of space between us.

I refused to let my face react.

"Why would I agree to that?" I said.

"Because if you don't, I'll walk into my dad's office tonight and tell him I've developed feelings for my nanny." His expression didn't change. "You'll be out the door before dinner."

I held his gaze for a long moment.

He wasn't bluffing. That was the worst part.

"Fine," I said. "But this only works if you actually behave. No skipping school. No letting your grades drop. If your father starts questioning what I'm doing here, the deal is off."

"I'll behave." He held up one hand. "Scout's honour."

I pushed him back by the chest and walked into his room, sitting on the edge of his bed to put some space between us. He followed and leaned against the dresser across from me, ankles crossed like this was all very casual.

"Ground rules," he said.

"Of course you have ground rules."

"Rule one — you already agreed to this, so consider it confirmed. You are not my nanny in name or action. You don't tell me what to eat, when to sleep, or what to do with my time."

"Only if you behave," I said. "That condition stays."

"Sure." He waved a hand. "Rule two — nobody at school finds out you're living here. Nobody finds out you're my nanny."

That one I actually agreed with.

"Deal," I said. "I have no interest in anyone at Westfield knowing either."

"Good." He nodded once. "We understand each other."

"I have a rule too," I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Stop bullying me at school. Whatever this arrangement is at home, it doesn't mean anything if you're still making my life a nightmare every morning in that building."

A pause.

"I'll try," he said.

"That's not good enough."

"It's what you're getting, Brooklyn." He said it without cruelty, which was somehow more unsettling than when he was being awful. "I'll try. That's honest. Take it or leave it."

I looked at him for a moment. Then I nodded.

He pushed off the dresser and crossed the room toward me. I stayed where I was on the bed, watching him come closer, telling myself whatever my pulse was doing was purely adrenaline from the negotiation.

He sat down beside me on the bed, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him.

"Emerson." My voice stayed flat. "What are you doing?"

"Though I haven't been very good at keeping my distance around you," he murmured, almost to himself, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth, "I'll admit that."

"Move back."

He didn't. Instead he leaned slightly forward, one hand pressing into the mattress on the other side of me, caging me in the way he always seemed to find an excuse to do.

"Emerson." Sharper this time.

"I'm just sealing the deal," he said quietly.

"With what?"

He looked at me like the answer was obvious.

"With a kiss."

"Are you kidding me? We hate each other."

Emerson blinked. Then he stood up off the bed, looked at his own hand for a second, and spat into his palm.

He held it out to me.

I stared at it.

"Old fashioned way," he said simply.

I looked at his hand. I looked at his face. Then I sighed so deeply it came from somewhere in my feet, and I shook it.

Deal made.

---

He drove us to school the next morning. His car was exactly the kind that made people turn their heads — sleek, black, quietly expensive. Daisy sat in the back with her bag on her lap, and I sat in the passenger seat staring out the window, pretending this was all completely normal.

We dropped Daisy at her school first. She climbed out, gave me a small wave, and disappeared through the gates.

When we pulled up outside Westfield, Emerson kept the engine running.

"Wait in the car," he said.

I turned to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"Give me two minutes to get inside first." He stared straight ahead through the windscreen. "I don't want anyone seeing us arrive together."

I thought about arguing. Then I remembered I didn't want anyone seeing us arrive together either.

"Fine."

He got out without another word. I watched him cross the car park and disappear through the main entrance, hands in his pockets, unbothered as always.

I reached for my own bag and stopped.

Daisy's lunchbox was sitting on the back seat.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. Pink, with a small sticker of a flower on the front that Daisy had put there herself. She hadn't eaten breakfast this morning either. By lunchtime she'd be starving.

I looked at the school entrance. Then at the lunchbox.

"Maybe a delivery service," I muttered to myself. I'd figure it out at break time. I tucked it under my arm, got out of the car, and headed inside.

---

I dropped the lunchbox in my locker to keep it safe until I could sort out a delivery. I was still thinking through the logistics when I shut the locker door and found three people standing right beside me.

Savannah Hayes. Head girl, Westfield's most decorated bully, and the person who had made my scholarship years miserable in a completely different way from Emerson. She had two of her friends flanking her and a large iced drink in one hand.

"Brooklyn." She said my name like it tasted bad. "Still showing your face around here. Haven't you got the message yet?"

"What message?" I kept my voice flat. "That you hate me? That's been pretty clear for a while now, Savannah."

She stepped closer. Her friends shifted behind her.

"I guess using words isn't enough with you," she said sweetly.

I looked at the drink in her hand. "Are you going to pour that on me? How original."

Something crossed her face. Not embarrassment — more like she was recalculating.

"Please." She tilted her head. "You already look terrible, Brooklyn. Dumping this on you won't make a difference." She paused, smile spreading slowly. "But I know exactly the right way to hurt someone like you. A desperate little try-hard who works twice as hard as everyone else just to stay relevant."

She looked past me at my locker. Her eyes landed on the strap of my history essay folder poking out from where I hadn't shut it properly.

"Don't we have a history essay due today?" she said.

My stomach dropped.

She stepped toward my bag, which was hanging open on the locker hook, the folder clearly visible. Her drink tilted in her hand — slowly, almost upside down, hovering directly above it.

"Savannah." My voice broke slightly. "No. Please. I spent two weeks on that essay."

"Too bad." She shrugged. "I really don't care."

"Emerson!"

His name came out before I even decided to say it. I just saw him at the end of the corridor, and it came out loud and sharp and embarrassingly desperate.

"Please — stop them!"