Page 7 of The Nanny Tenure (Single Dads Club)

“Hot Professor needs a nanny,” I said, and Nate propped his hands on his hips, surveying me seriously as if I was in an interview.

“Do you have any experience?” he asked.

“A bit. I worked in a day care for a while.”

“And you’re really interested?”

“I lost my job. I need money.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Taylor’s head was on a swivel between Nate and me. “Wait just a goddamn second, Ken. You want to be ananny? Since when?”

“Since I got into a car accident and was fired for not showing up at my job.”

“You say that as if you were fired out of the blue. You were warned not to be late on multiple occasions.”

I waved away that detail. “I didn’t like the job anyway.”

“You don’t like any job. That’s your whole issue.”

“I like kids, though,” I said.

Here I was, trying to problem-solve on my own. And here she was, trying to interfere. She should’ve been happy. Proud of my initiative. “And how hard could it be?” I went on. “I need a job and money to fix my car.”

“How are you going to get to said job without a car that works?” she asked like she was cross-examining me.

She had me there, but when I glanced to Nate and then over his shoulder to the Hot Professor diligently writing, it hit me. I zipped my attention back to Nate. “You think he’s offering room and board?”

That would killthreebirds with one stone.

“No idea.” Nate lifted his hand to acknowledge another patron, who needed a refill, then rapped his knuckles on the bar. “You guys let me know if you need anything.” He pointed at me with a smile. “Including a job.”

My laugh was cut off by Taylor grabbing hold of my wrist. “What the fuck are you talking about? You suddenly want to be a nanny and live with a stranger?”

“I was already living with a stranger.”

“What do you meanwas?”

I dropped my head back on my shoulders, blowing out a breath. I would really love it if my sister didn’t pick up on Every. Little. Detail.

“Kennedy. What do you mean was? You’re not living with Carol anymore?”

Carol was a woman in her sixties who rented me a room in her house. I’d found it on an apartment-hunting website a few months ago, after I’d been living in Philly with my family for a few weeks post Jordan breakup. I had needed a place to live, and it was cheap. Carol was nice and minded her own business. But the sly minx had gone and met a man online, and she was moving across the country to be with him. I told my sister the condensed version of the story, and she groaned my name.

“Kennedy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.” When my sister scowled at me, I added a petulant, “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“Yeah, but you should’ve told me this.”

“Why? You couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I could help you.”

I whirled on my stool to face her. “Titi, I love you, but I’m tired of feeling like…” I coasted my gaze around the bar, mentally searching for an explanation. “I’m not like you. I’m not book smart and haven’t known what I wanted to do from the time I was five.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but I needed to get this out and held up my palm to quiet her.

“Please don’t patronize me and tell me I can do whatever I set my mind to. Because I don’t even knowwhatto set my mind to. And yeah, I know I’ve wasted a lot of time, but I’m tired of being so dependent on you. I’m tired of not knowing what I’m doing every day. I’m tired of just not knowing, period.”

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