Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 145(@200wpm)___ 116(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
But what is real? Sighing deeply, I swipe right on a couple of decent looking men with actual biographies under their profiles. It’s a half-hearted effort and all of the men get a left swipe, because I can only think about piercing blue eyes, a razor-sharp jaw, and a muscular body that made me moan.
Who am I kidding? I close out the app with an aggressive tap of my finger. These guys aren’t going to measure up. These are run-of-the-mill nobodies, while the man you met last night was a god.
But what choice do I have? Even more, what future do I have? After all, I can’t exactly tell potential boyfriends that I moonlight as a hostess at an elite sex club because who would want me? Do they really want to know that I made love to a billionaire on Monday, shared drinks and kisses with a CEO on Friday, and now I’m in bed with them in their dinky studio in Hell’s Kitchen? No, no, and no.
Still, there is a small but expanding piece of my heart that wishes I could have it all. I’m only twenty-four years old after all, and while it might be young to be thinking about becoming a mom, it’s just something that I want. I’ve wanted kids for a long time, to be honest, and it’s one of the main reasons I babysit for the agency— because it gives me a chance to hang out with cute kiddos and play pretend with my life. When I work for some families, I look around their penthouse apartments and wonder what if these kids were mine? Wouldn’t it be so nice to be a mommy with a nice house, a big kitchen, and a doting husband who adores his family? But then, the clock always strikes midnight, and it’s time for me to say goodbye and get home.
Speaking of next steps…
I glance at my watch and decide that I need to shift my focus to all things babysitting. After all, tonight’s actually a last minute gig. According to the agency, the client had another babysitter lined up but she had to bail at the last minute, so I’m just filling in. I flip open my phone and scan the client’s profile to learn more about the child before I meet her.
A little girl, I read on my phone. She’s five years old and apparently likes books and Barbie. I nod to myself, delighted by her combination of interests. The family lives in a posh neighborhood, which isn’t surprising. And the profile doesn’t say much about the parents. Instead, it just lists an address and phone number. That’s pretty typical— like Sanctum, the babysitting agency works with a lot of elite families, so privacy is important.
The downside is that these kids can come with some unexpected challenges. Usually they’re spoiled beyond belief, and almost always they think of the babysitter as someone to be bossed around. I mean, I get it because Boss Baby is a thing these days, but it’s not so cute when an eight year old genuinely thinks that they’re the lord of the manor, and you’re a serf employed by his parents to keep him happy.
But that’s pretty rare, and besides, there are some good apples in the bunch. I’ve become a semi-regular sitter for a few families, and they always give me great bonuses for the holidays or my birthday. Plus, their kids are sweethearts, and I’ve fallen in love with the little ones for sure.
Finally, the train pulls into my stop on the Upper East Side, and I hop out with the rest of the crowd. A stream of people makes its way out of the station, and when I pop out a street level, I’m surprised by how clean this particular neighborhood looks. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised because allegedly, there are billionaires who live in this area.
I begin my walk, and my stroll is pleasant. The usually noisy city seems quieter in this part of town, and almost peaceful. I haven’t been this far into the Upper Eastside before, and I like that there are lots of trees scattered about. Of course, there are huge, blocky buildings, but there are also a good number of townhomes with mansard roofs, long, skinny windows, and welcoming stoops. Yes, stoops are a thing in NYC, and people take care of them so that their houses give off the right vibe.
After a few more blocks, I stop outside a particularly large townhouse and stare. Yep, this is it. The thing has to be at least five stories, and when I climb the marble steps, sure enough, there’s only one buzzer. That means that the family lives on five floors, all alone. I wonder if each family member has their own floor because the home certainly seems big enough.