Page 49 of Love Unwritten

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Page 49 of Love Unwritten

She blinks rapidly, although it doesn’t erase the mistiness in her eyes. “Thanks. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

She glances away and wipes at the corner of her eye.

“Things aren’t the same without you,” I say earnestly.

She turns to face me again.

“He’s not the same,” I add.

Her reply is nothing but a long exhale. “That makes me feel awful.” She focuses on an invisible point behind me. “But…”

I’ve received enough brush-offs in my life to recognize the first sign. “I’m willing to do anything to bring you back. A raise. An extra day off every week. Name it and it’s yours.”

“My salary or PTO was never an issue, and you know it.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Something that was broken between us.”

“What?” I ask.

“Trust.”

My shoulders tense. “I’m going to need time.”

She exhales. “I’m not only talking about you.”

I stare at her in confusion.

Her eyes fall to the floor, as if looking me in the face proves too difficult of a task. “You made it clear that I’m disposable at a moment’s notice, and I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t let someone else make me feel that way again.”

My teeth smash together. “I can’t go back and change the way I reacted.”

“I know, and as much as I hate to admit it, you were right to fire me. If Nico’s accident proved anything, it’s that I’m grossly underqualified to be his nanny.” Her voice shakes.

“That’s bullshit.”

She stares at me with wide eyes.

“We went through seven nannies before you. All of them were beyond qualified for the job, yet none of them brought my kid back like you did.”

Her chin wobbles. “I was doing my job.”

“No. You were doing so much more than that.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to see Nico change back into the quiet boy who didn’t laugh, smile, or play music. God, it would destroy me to see him like that all over again. So I’m pleading—hell, I’m even willing to beg—if it convinces you to come back.”

Uncomfortable silence follows, and my anxiety spikes. Her hardened gaze seems to soften, which gives me some hope about our situation.

“You don’t need to do that,” she says with a soft voice.

“I’m desperate, Eleanor.” My voice is strained.

She gives me a little shove, and I lose my footing, not because of her strength but because of the small laugh she lets out. “Desperate enough to stop calling me by my full name? Because although I love her, it reminds me of my grandmother.”

I scoff, pretending the warmth in my chest is a result of my nerves rather than a reaction to her touch. “Anything but that.”

At first, I did it solely to annoy her, but then I found myself enjoying how flustered she got each time I called her by her given name. She always did this cute little eye roll—




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