Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“What’s her name?”
“Maisie.”
“Congratulations on being a father. She’s beautiful.” She really is just the cutest baby.
“Not mine,” he says.
Oh. Because that’s not weird.
“Not yours?” Probably not a good idea to accuse my new boss of being a child thief but whose baby is this? “Whose baby is this then?”
“Eli’s.”
“And Eli is…”
“Not here.”
The man is a human Rubik’s Cube, a lot of work and not worth the effort. “I’m not very good with kids,” I feel compelled to explain. Just in case he was getting any ideas.
“Probably not, but we don’t really have a choice right now, do we?” his mother says, jumping into the conversation once again. Very unpleasant woman. Which explains a lot. It makes me feel sorry for her son.
And why is she implying that I’m the choice? Because child care is not what I signed up for. I signed up for screwing up Zoom meetings, not screwing up toddlers.
“So…the nanny isn’t coming back?”
While West casually walks to the window overlooking Central Park, his mother lays a look of pure contempt on me.
“Gabby Walters is the most sought after child care professional in the city.”
No mystery where West gets the attitude.
“Sorry. Is the child care professional coming back?”
Her shoulders fall and she gets a hopeless look on her face. Shoot. This does not bode well for me. “No. She’s not.”
“But someone else is, right?” I nervously glance between mother and son.
She frowns––or what I imagine would be a frown were it not for the copious amounts of Botox in her face. “Try getting a last-minute qualified child care provider in this city”––she scoffs––“impossible.”
I’m about to ask about an unqualified one because what’s the alternative? Me? No. Absolutely not.
His mother’s gaze falls on the quiet child tucked in my arms, her baby fists holding tightly onto my shirt, her head resting on my shoulder, a wet spot developing on the delicate silk from her tear-soaked cheeks. For the first time I see the severe lines on Mrs. West’s face soften. “You’ll do for now.”
How the heck did I get roped into this? “No ma’am. I am seriously unqualified––like a danger to this child. I don’t even know which way is up or down on her.”
Mrs. West points to Maisie’s mouth. “That’s where the food goes.” Her short French-manicured nail points to Maisie’s butt. “That’s where the poop comes out. You clean both in that order.”
After which, the woman picks lint off her white linen shirt, fixes the wooden bangles jangling on her wrists, and grabs her purse off the chair next to her. “Well…I’ve got to get back to DC.” Tucking it under her arm, she makes for the exit.
“You’re leaving?” West asks in that irritatingly indifferent tone.
“My work here is done. I’ll call when I find someone more suitable, Jordan.” Looking directly at me, she adds, “Try not to break her in the meantime.”
Out she goes without a backward glance, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and a lot of confusion in her wake. The confusion is all mine of course.
Chapter Six
Riley
I’m not a kid person as a general rule. I don’t gush when I see babies. I don’t dream of a family. I mean, one would be nice, someday, but it’s not a priority. Besides, with who?
Bottom line, I don’t know anything about kids. I was barely a kid myself––and even then, not for very long. If you’ve ever lived with a chronically sick person, you know that life revolves around them while yours gets pushed to the back burner, if not off the stove altogether.
All I can remember up until the day Tommy saved my life is hospitals, and nurses, and the smell of vomit and antiseptic cleanser. My mother screaming not to play near the oxygen tank. My dad telling me it was okay. That it wasn’t my fault that Mom was upset. That she was just tired from lack of sleep.
And yet here I am…a child care provider for a toddler.
“Um, Mr. West,” I say, testing his name out. Awkward but what else do I call my new boss?
“Jordan,” he’s quick to correct.
“Jordan…” Yeah, okay, that feels weird too. “I’m not a babysitter.”
“No, you’re not. You’re my assistant and I need assistance with my God child.”
God child…another crumb of information to stash away and examine later. He’s not exactly the forthcoming type and managed to side stepped the question about Maisie’s parents pretty smoothly. I’ll bide my time for now. It’s too soon to start pelting him on personal matters.
I take a seat on the couch, the baby getting heavy in my arms. She barely stirs.
“Mr. West…” Um awkward. “Jordan, I––”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, interrupting. “I need you here seven days a week.”
“Seven?!”
“For now––until I find someone else. And some nights.”
“Nights?”
Here? I have to sleep here? With him in the house? This is escalating quickly.