The Billionaire's Nanny: A BWWM Romantic Comedy (3 page)

“You know all the other apartments on this block are two hundred dollars more than this one,” she continues, not mentioning that they’ve also been rehabbed and don’t have a leak in the ceiling and have central air instead of box fans. “I’ve held off as long as I can because I’d hate to lose you, sweetie. But, you know, times are what they are.” She paused and added, as if imparting wisdom, “It is what it is.”

“How much?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

“One fifty. I really need to raise it two hundred, but I just can’t bring myself to be a greedy capitalist, you know.”

“Right. Well. Thanks for letting me know. Now I have to get to work.” I lock the door behind me and walk past her and down the stairs, trying to get outside before the tears start.

One hundred and fifty dollars. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. The school where I teach is a charter school, set up by well meaning but business-foolish do-gooders who wanted to help the children of the sizable migrant worker population. Most of these kids have Spanish-only homes and they struggle in traditional public schools. The Excellence Academy was set up to teach bi-lingually and to meet the needs of this population that doesn’t always stay the whole school year. It’s a great idea, and the staff is fantastic, if I do say so myself, but mismanagement is making it hard to keep the school open. I was part of a small group that convinced the whole staff to take a pay cut for the coming year to help give the charter board a chance to find grant money, federal hand-outs, whatever to keep the school afloat. Of course that pay cut was one hundred and fifty dollars a month.

How in the heck am I going to find that extra money?

My walk to the bar is in a haze. I already eat for practically nothing, picking up meals of whatever the cafe and bar don’t charge for, rice and beans on days I don’t work. I don’t drive my beat-up old Ford Focus because it needs gas and repairs. I never buy new clothes, not even at Goodwill. My phone is my only real expense, I don’t even have internet service in my apartment, I go to a coffee shop to do my school work.

But oh, apparently Carol needs to fund a retreat to Santa Fe to get her aura re-purpled or some shit. Dammit.

I take a deep breath, get back my composure. Wipe my eyes. I’ll figure it out. I always do. I’ll just have to keep on tending bar during the school year. I’ll have to cut back on after school help for the kids, of course, but, as Carol so helpfully put it, it is what it is.

When I get behind the bar, I see that there’s a bachelorette party, already in progress.

“They got here, already hammered, about an hour ago. Good luck,” says Mitch as he gets ready to clock out.

“I’ll be sure to split their excellent tip with you,” I say not even trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Bachelorette parties are the worst. And I am not in the mood.

I tie on my apron, wondering if the off season will even bring enough money to make up the shortfall in my rent. I need a lot more rich guys to come in and hand me their babies if my tip money is going to keep me afloat.

I’m kept pretty busy, at least, making appletinis and cosmos, assuring the ladies that we still do not have any white wine.

“I just thought that was the name. To be funny,” one tells me as she hangs across the bar.

“Nope, it’s for real. No Wine. ‘No Wine-ers.’ Can I get you another cosmo?”

“Can I have it in a to-go cup? The limo is here!”

“Nope. No booze leaves the bar. Who gets the tab?” Seriously, they get drunk and will just
leave
forgetting that somebody has to pay up.

"
Christie!
You have to
pay!"

After the party staggers out–ten whole dollars, gosh thanks!–the bar is a lot quieter. I suspect we lost a lot of business to people opening the door, seeing that group, and moving right along. So even more money I don’t get.

There are a couple of regulars at the bar. Dave isn’t our usual clientele, he’s more of a beer than a cocktail guy, but he lives upstairs, so he’s pretty loyal. Eric and Dan are both winemakers at boutique wineries, so they have these super-sophisticated palates but are tired of wine. So they like to offer cocktail suggestions and help me improve my technique. I’m usually pretty good natured about it–heck, they have good ideas sometimes–but I’m not feeling it tonight.

“Did you hear about those pickle juice cocktails that are hot now?” Dan asks.

“What is it with damned pickles all of the sudden”" I ask. “I get enough pickle talk at the cafe.”

“Sounds like it could make a good martini,” says Eric, “You should bring in some juice next time.”

“I have enough to remember, Eric, but thanks.” I turn to Dave. “Another whiskey?” He nods and they start chattering about which local gin to pair with what sort of pickle juice.

Bartender is a tough job when you’re in a bad mood. Well, not breaking-rocks-on-the-chain-gang tough. Annoying. You can work up a head of righteous indignation.

I’ve managed to get a good seethe going when I see Corbin walk up to the bar.

“Hi,” he says, smiling.

“Hi,” I say, “did you ditch the baby with a cocktail waitress?” That sounded meaner than was strictly warranted. But I’m feeling grouchy.

“No, I left her with…a friend. Do you have a second?”

There it is again, that sadness behind what looks like a normal, friendly smile. It melts my icy heart a bit. I look around the bar, everyone is set. “Sure,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a somewhat unusual proposal.” Briefly, I wonder if it’s going to be one of those paid mistress gigs. My heart beats a little faster. “I find myself in need of a nanny and I was really impressed with how well you handled Maeve this afternoon. I’d like to offer you a full-time position.”

His speech is so formal and stilted, I know he must be nervous, but what a weird thing to ask. Mistress would have seemed less strange.

“Mr. Pierce, you know nothing about me. You just know I can hold a baby right-way-up.”

He smiles a little. “Corbin, please, and give me a little credit. I did a background check.”

I feel a flash of anger. “What? What do you mean, what gives you the right?”

The calming motion he makes with his hands isn’t particularly effective. “You told me your name, I Googled you. That’s all. I didn’t involve the Federal Government.” He pauses, cocks his head and smiles again. Really, he’s too charming to stay mad at for long. “Should I have?”

“Seems like you’d want to hire someone with some actual experience to take care of your baby. Not a waitress/bartender you’ve only just met. Even one with really delicious braids.”

He chuckles. “I know that you are actually a third grade teacher. I know that you’re well educated. I know that you are involved with the migrant population, which suggests compassion. No convictions.”

I nod. All true.

“And I know that you took a pay cut to help your school stay afloat and that you aren’t independently wealthy and could probably, therefore, use the money. Unless you’re a really good waitress.”

“I’m a terrible waitress. Your tip was more than the rest of my week’s earnings, combined. But, as you know, I have a real job. A job I love.”

“Right. I need you to care for Maeve while I find a full-time replacement. She had a nanny back in Boston, but I never cared for her. She’s one of those strict, by the books types and I…I just don’t want that for Maeve. She’s a baby, for godsakes, how many rules can she need?”

He looks wounded as he says this. Uncertain. It’s like he doesn’t actually
know
what babies need, but he’s just got a feeling. I’m dying to ask about the mother, but instinct tells me not to. This is a ridiculous offer. I have never even been a babysitter. Third graders are not infants, it’s well outside my area of expertise. But he seems so sincere.

“So, this isn’t a live-in job, is it? It’s not 24-7?”

“No, just day time, a normal job, say 8-4? Well, realistically, more like 8-6, given my schedule, but you’d be well compensated.” He notices that Eric and Dan are watching our conversation intently. Nosy bastards. Corbin pulls a pen from the tray on the bar and writes a number on a cocktail napkin. Ho-ly Crap.

I whisk the napkin into my pocket. “Wow. Um, that is generous. Obviously, that would make a huge difference in my life, but even so, I’m just not sure, I mean, this is kind of a big deal. That much money is…well, it’s pressure. What if I’m terrible at this?”

He smiles the smile of someone who knows what it looks like when he’s won. “Then you will get a severance package that should at least keep you from regretting having quit your other jobs. No hard feelings.”

I give him the side eye. “How do you know I won’t just take that severance so I can loaf the rest of the summer?”

“You won’t.” He smiles broadly, showing me perfect teeth. “It’s not who you are.”

He’s right of course, but how can he be so sure after a Google search? That confidence is convincing, though. As is that money.

“Let me sleep on it. I’ll let you know by noon tomorrow, okay?”

“Perfectly reasonable.” He picks up another napkin and scrawls a number. “Call me on my cell. If you accept, I’ll want you to start right away. Will that be a problem?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, Anne will probably be glad to be rid of me. I think she’s kept me on as a charity case. And I can still work here at night until they find a replacement.”

“Okay good. I look forward to hearing from you. I hope you’ll accept. Maeve really liked you.”

“I liked her, too.”
And you
, I don’t add.

Corbin gets up and walks out of the bar, turning to smile at me before he steps outside.

“That’s weird, right?” I say to the guys who were eavesdropping.

“From the way your eyes bugged when he handed you the napkin with the salary on it, I’m guessing it can’t be weird enough to make you say no,” says Eric.

I take a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, it’d have to be pretty damned weird. What if he really just wants to kill me and uses this baby as bait to lure young poor girls to his house?”

Dan nods. “Prob’ly not even his baby.”

“Bet he stole it,” adds Dave, getting into the spirit of the thing.

“Oh shit!” says Dan, "I bet he killed a pregnant lady and
took
the baby to raise as bait for more ladies!"

"
Jesus
, Dan," says Eric. “Too fuckin’ dark, man.”

“Seriously,” I say. “Dial it back.” I take out the first napkin and look at that number again. It would cover the raise in my rent. And then some.

I spend the rest of the night waffling back and forth from “It would be stupid not to take this job” to “Only a stupid person would take this job.” My regulars get gradually drunk and go home, so they’re no help. It’s too late to call Gran. It’s too complicated to text, so I dial the number for Asia, my best girlfriend. She picks up after several rings.

“Is someone dead?” I can hear noise in the background, she must be out.

“No, everything’s fine, I just have a problem too complicated for text.”

“Okay, hang on, let me go to the bathroom, so I can hear. I’m out with Miguel.”

I met Asia in college. when we were paired up as Freshman roommates. We were that rare pair that got along and we were inseparable the whole four years. She took the same gig I did–teach for two years, pay off your loans–she went to Oakland, where she is from. Asia, however, is looking forward to her time being up. She’s planning to get her MBA, having found that a journalism degree isn’t as useful as she’d hoped. She says Miguel is just a boy-toy and that she’ll leave him for school on the East coast. But I’ll be shocked if she goes any further than SF State. She’s smitten, and with good reason, he’s a sexy bicycle cop with a wicked sense of humor.

“I’m back,” her voice has that echo-y in-the-bathroom sound, but at least the background noise is a dull thumping. “So what’s so complicated you can’t just say it in a series of emojis?”

I laugh. “Maybe there’s one for ‘a rich guy just offered me more than twice my current salary to come be a nanny for his kid but maybe he’s actually going to kill me’ but I don’t know where it is. Maybe with the traffic signs?”

“Jeez, really? When did that happen? What rich guy? And since when are you looking for a nanny job?”

“Uh, it’s been a long day.” I launch into the story, once again proudly sharing my ice cube trick and once again getting a “you’re lucky she didn’t swallow it!” in return. Which only serves to illustrate how little I know about babies.

“Also, letting her chew on your hair is gross. He must be seriously clueless to let that happen.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“It’s just gross. You don’t let your baby chew on a stranger’s hair. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Intro to Parenting class.”

“I think he probably skipped. Anyway, what do you think about the mom? I mean, she must be dead, right, if he needs a nanny? No living mom would just send an infant away for months.”

“Oh, I just assumed she was working, too. Is she gone?”

I’m stunned for a second. "Um, actually, I don’t really know. He just
seemed
alone, you know? It wasn’t just that she wasn’t with him, he’s…sad, somehow. I, I guess I just assumed."

“‘Ass outta you and me.’ Well, you anyway. Yeah, I bet she’s just working, too. They’re moving out West, she sent him and the baby ahead because she has important business. He’s finding the nanny. If they’re that rich, they’re both working. You’re just a sexist to assume the man wouldn’t have primary childcare duty.”

I sit down on a stack of beer crates. I feel really, really stupid. It never even occurred to me that the mother was in the picture. I’m not sure why the idea has totally knocked me on my rear, but it has.

“Listen,” says Asia, “I need to get back out there, Miguel will think I have the runs. What’s the problem, though? Take the job, stupid. It’s only until fall, you’ll save a bit of money, you won’t have to work for Anne. You can quit the night job, too, probably, and have some time to yourself for once.”

“So you don’t think he’s an axe-murderer?”