The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy

Chapter One

"Vanessa…VANESSA! If it isn’t
too
much trouble, could you maybe take menus to the people who have been sitting in your section for at least five minutes now?"

Startled, I look up and slam my book shut. “Sorry!” I grab the menus and scuttle out from behind the bar, trying not to actually see the look on Anne’s face. I am the worst waitress on Earth.

The couple at table six are trying to be good natured, bless them. They’re fairly young, probably waited tables themselves not that long ago, they want to give me the benefit of the doubt. But, you know, they came here to eat and they’re hungry. I try to turn my flustered embarrassment at having been caught reading when I have tables
again
into adorable charm.

“Sorry it took so long, we print the menus on demand, so it can take a while.” big smile to show I’m not really trying to lie–which would be dumb because they could see me there, nose in a book.

The woman takes the menu and smiles back. “Must be pretty engrossing, What are you reading?”

I wave my hand dismissively, “Oh, no great literature, just a sweeping family saga…I’m a sucker for them. So…what can I get you to drink?”

Honestly, I can’t believe Anne hasn’t fired me. It’s peak tourist season in wine country, the cafe uses this money to stay open during the slower months, and she sure doesn’t need me losing money. On the other hand, I show up on time and I don’t have a lot of facial piercings or a neck tattoo. I speak English as a first language. But I tend to hyper focus on what I’m doing–like, say, reading–and forget I have other things to do. I’ll get so into wrapping flatware that I forget to bring out a check. I’ll get so focused on putting flowers in vases that I forget I was supposed to be watching the register. At my other job, tending bar, I’m kept so busy I don’t have time to retreat into my head. But here…well, like I said, I’m the worst waitress on Earth.

I’m a great teacher, though, I swear! That’s my real job. But teaching at a tiny charter school doesn’t keep the lights on in the summer, so here I am, bringing overpriced sandwiches to the wine country tourists.

After I take table six’s order back to the kitchen, I see my book sitting there on the bar, waiting. Just looking at what comes next can’t hurt, right? I was so near the end of the chapter…

I open it with one hand, still holding an empty tray on my hip, and get sucked back in immediately. There’s just something about a multi-generational saga, you know? My grandmother once pulled a Sweet Valley High book out of my hands and gave me a battered paperback copy of
Roots
. She wanted to instill an interest in the history of black people in America, really it just triggered a love of historical family drama.
The Thorn Birds, Gone With the Wind, Joy Luck Club
…I’m not picky. I just want it to be a one-volume story and have a big, messy family. And if there’s a romance and a happy ending? Even better.

“Order up!”

I slap the book shut again and see that my table is looking at me to see if I’ll notice that some food is ready. I decide to surprise them by bringing it right out. As I set their plates down, I see that another of my tables was seated while I was reading. I know it’s stupid to feel annoyed–no tables, no tips–but I’m at a really good part.

It’s a man with a baby on his lap. No second table setting, so he must be here alone. Well, except for the baby, but she looks too little for a plate and a wine glass. As I approach with a menu, he looks up from his phone. He’s really good looking, but clearly having a tough day.

“Here’s a menu, I’ll set it right here, since your hands are full,” I smile at the baby, who is doing her best to chew through the sleeve of his polo shirt. “Would you like me to get a high chair?”

His broad shoulders slump a little and he frowns. “It wouldn’t do any good. She screams like a banshee in them. I’m going to have to take a call in a few minutes, so I need her to stay happy.”

“She looks pretty happy chewing on your arm. Is there anything I could bring her? Can I get you something to drink?”

The poor guy just looks confused and kind of ticked off. I wonder if his wife just thrust this baby into his arms and told him to get the hell out for a little while so she could nap or something. The baby is super cute–huge blue eyes, dimples, wearing one of those mismatched pattern dresses that rich people seem to love.

“Club soda? For me, that is. I’ll just give her a bottle when the call comes in. Bring me a BLT,” he says without looking at the menu to see if we have such a thing, “on wheat. No chips, extra pickle.”

We don’t serve chips, don’t have a BLT on the menu, and have an actual pickle section on the menu because apparently that’s what Bay Area hipsters are into right now. But even lousy waitress that I am, I can see he does not want to hear any of that. So I smile and nod and take the menu away.

“Hey Marco,” I say to the cook, “I need a BLT on wheat.”

He gives me that look. "We don’t
have
BLT. You know that."

If you show weakness, Marco will run right over you. “We got bacon?”

“Yes.”

“We got lettuce?”

“Not iceberg, only that fancy stuff.”

“Still lettuce, though, right? And I know we got tomato.”

“Just cherry, little bitty ones.”

“Then slice ’em in half and polka dot that bread, yo!”

Marco rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Girl, don’t even try. Your skin is brown but your mouth is white.”

I put my hand on my hip and snake my head out at him, “Oh, you saying a black woman can’t speak proper English?” This is a thing with us. Black waitress and Mexican cook accuse one another of racism. It makes Anne, the white manager, very nervous, but we’re just having fun.

“Oh you speak good,” says Marco, reaching for the basket of tomatoes, “but you’re a terrible waitress. You can’t take orders for things we don’t have!”

"I think I just established that we
do
have it." I smile sweetly at him. “And if you want me to keep saying nice things about you to Luisa, you’ll humor me.”

“Blackmail.”

“There you go again, with the racism.”

Marco laughs and starts making my sandwich. He has a crush on my next door neighbor. She has a crush on him, too, but a little uncertainty is nice to leverage into favors from the cook. I look at the jars of pickles–no standard deli spears, of course–and decide on one hops-and-fennel fronds pickle and one maple bourbon pickle.

Really, I’m not sure why I’m bending over backwards for this guy. I could have just said, “Sorry, we don’t have BLTs.” I could have pointed out the pickle menu and made him choose for himself. But that combination of bewilderment and gathering thunder clouds over his head…it just looked like the last thing he wanted was to have to make a decision about food.

I’m putting the pickle jars back when I see Anne pop into the kitchen. “Vanessa, jesus, could you take table six their check? I bussed them for you ages ago, what is up?”

Shit.
Totally forgot about them in all this BLTs and babies frenzy. I rush out and lay it on their table. “Sorry! I can take this up when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, we’re ready now, thanks.” The guy glances at the bill and then hands me his credit card. I can see that they’ve had it with me. The beauty of working in a touristy area is that the customers weren’t coming back, anyway.

When they go, I see that they left 15%, which was nice of them, considering. That’s when I remember I never took Exhausted Baby Guy his club soda. I rush over to get that and take it to him. He downs most of it in one gulp while the baby tries to grab it from him.

“Another, please,” he says, pushing the glass out of the baby’s reach.

“Whoa there, you driving?” I ask.

His eyebrows come together and his blue eyes look dark until he sees my smile. His expression softens and he lets the corners of his mouth turn up. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m having a hell of a week.”

“That’s okay. We all have them. Except babies.” I smile at the little girl now gnawing on his watch. It’s a Tag Heuer, probably worth more than everything I own put together. He better tip well. “What’s her name?”

“What? Oh, Maeve. This is Maeve.” He hoists her up a bit as if introducing us, but she lurches back toward that delicious gold watch.

“Order up!”

“That’s probably your sandwich,” I say, “Be right back.”

When I come back with his food and drink–I remembered the club soda! Hooray for me!–his phone rings.

“Goddammit,” he mutters, and shifts Maeve so that she’s facing out, unable to grab his food or his phone. That is not what she had in mind.

While the guy tries to answer the phone, Maeve works up from “Eh eh eh” to a cry. He stands with her and tries to bounce her to silence. She’s having none of it. The poor guy looks like he can’t decide between screaming or crying himself.

I swoop in before he can make up his mind. “Can I hold her for you?” I ask. I hold out my hands to the baby to see if she’s at all willing to come to a stranger.

She reaches for me and he gratefully shucks her off into my arms and strides toward the back of the restaurant, talking into his phone.

The baby grabs some of my braids in each hand.

“Hi, Maeve,” I say, “I’m Vanessa. I’ll be your server today. Apparently my job description just expanded.”

Maeve’s big blue eyes are studying my face. I smile and she smiles back. She has a few teeth, but not a lot. I don’t think she’s walking, but she’s sturdy and expressive and able to sit up. I’m an only child of only children, I know nothing about babies. She’s cute, though.

“DA!” she suddenly shouts, smacking me in the boob.

“Oh no, sweetie, those are not for you. I am not your mama. You’d be very disappointed.”

“DA!” she smacks my arm. So maybe it’s just a slapping game and not a search for food.

Her dad is in a back corner, where it’s quieter, talking and gesturing. The front bell rings and more customers come in.

“Okay, Maeve. I’m going to have to do my job. Maybe if they think I’m trying to raise a baby on a waitress salary, they’ll take pity and give me a big tip.”

She blows a spit bubble and laughs when it pops, leaving her chin wet. “Yeah, it’s pretty clear you aren’t my baby.” She reaches for nearly everything in sight, so I have an idea. I put her in a high chair and snap the tray on the front. She starts with the “Eh eh eh” but then I put three ice cubes on her tray. It’s magic! Immediately, she’s pushing them around and picking them up and letting them drop.

I get the menus to the new table and take their drink order. Drop a couple more ice cubes in front of Maeve since she’s launched the first three god knows where. Drinks to the table.

“Whose baby is that?” a woman asks.

“Mine,” I say, totally cool. Let them figure
that
out.

I give Maeve a spoon and show her how to push the ice cubes with it. That was a mistake because spoons are also really good for banging on trays.

“What’s going on?” Anne comes out from the back office and sees me trying to convince Maeve to give me the spoon.

“Table eight had to take a call, so I took his baby for him. Apparently babies like to bang things and shout.”

Anne’s kids are all grown and she gives me an “Are you kidding me?” look. “Yes, they do. Here, I’ll take the baby, you go take seven’s order.” She reaches for Maeve.

Maeve lets loose with a shriek of utter terror and recoils, like maybe she could tell that Anne was actually a pod monster. Anne jerks back, going “Whoa whoa whoa, it’s okay, it’s okay” in a soothing tone. But Maeve won’t even look at her. Her eyes are squinched shut and she’s taking her wail from “smoke detector” to “entire fire brigade.”

“Hey, Maeve!” I lean over her and shake my braids. She opens her eyes just a little and sees me. Like magic, the screaming stops, she grabs my hair.

“Okay,” says Anne, "I guess
I’ll
take the order."

“I got it,” I say, “I need the money. I’ll just take Maeve with me.” I pull her out of the chair and put her on my hip. I see that Dad is looking toward us with concern, still talking. I just wave and head over to table seven.

“Wow, she’s a real mama’s girl, huh?” asks one of the women at the table, looking from the lily-white baby to my cocoa-brown face. I can see all the high school genetics lessons being called up, trying to figure out how this could happen. I just smile. Maeve chews on a braid.

Table seven has eaten and paid–thirty percent, woo!–before Super Important Dad comes back from his call. I imagine his sandwich is kind of soggy, it’s been sitting there about a half an hour. My arm is killing me, this kid is solid.

"Thank you
so
much," he says, reaching for Maeve. She contentedly chews on my hair while pulling some other braids in her hands.

“Go ahead and eat,” I tell him, “You’re my only table right now. I’ll hold Maeve a bit longer. We’re pals now, aren’t we Maeve?”

“DA!” she says, letting my braid fall.

“That’s right, that’s your Dad,” then, remembering my own lie to table seven, I add, “You are, aren’t you? Her dad?”