Page 11 of Dr. Single Dad

“I’ve got another one tomorrow. Something will come up.”

“Something with a Saudi prince whose wife died in a tragic accident, and he falls in love with you as he sees you care so well for his son and heir.”

I don’t even try not to roll my eyes. “Do you actually study any computer stuff, or are you curled up in bed reading romance novels?”

“There’s room for both,” she says defensively. “But seriously, I see a hot single dad in your future. A rich one.”

I glance back over my shoulder. There’s no doubt Dax is hot, even if he’s not my usual type. And anyway, if I saw him again, he’d be my boss. I’m not about to start any kind of flirtation with someone who’s responsible for my pay packet. I don’t even know if he’s single.

Not that it matters either way. He’ll be my boss and off-limits, or I’ll never see him again. It’s really that simple.

“I see you failing your exams in the future if you don’t stop thinking up plots about my love life.”

“I just want you to have a little fun. Shoot me.”

“I know. But I just want you to pass your exams. You’re going to keep me in the manner to which I want to become accustomed in my old age.” The fact is, once Eddie is out of full-time education and able to stand on her own two feet financially, I’ll be able to think about planning for my own future. Though I joke with her about funding my retirement, I don’t actually expect anything from her. Looking after me isn’t what I want for her. I just want her to be independent and happy.

She laughs. “That’s absolutely going to happen. I’m pretty sure I’m going to launch a successful tech start-up and make millions.”

“Okay. Well you get busy with that. I’m about to head into the underground, so got to go.”

We say our love-yous, which we never miss—it’s unspoken between us, but we both know that if anything ever happens to either of us, the last thing we want to have said to each other isI love you. There’s never any doubt when you say it at the end of every conversation.

Before my phone is back in my pocket, it starts to ring.

It’s the agency.

“It’s not-so-great news,” Felicity shrieks, as if she’s some kind of wailing Italian widow. “I’m so sorry. He wants someone older. I told him I think he’s a fool.”

Dax’s face dissolves in my head. Even though I’m relieved, there’s something lodged in my chest that won’t shift.

This is for the best, I tell myself. I’ve avoided any kind of silly crush on my boss.

But it means I’m on Callie’s sofa for the foreseeable future. Maybe I need a bar job for a few weeks, just to keep my savings topped up.

The thing about being a live-in nanny is that your home is completely dependent on your job. No job equals no place to sleep at night. Since my last assignment ended three months ago, I’ve been on my best friend’s sofa. Callie and I met at Portland, but she went the daytime nanny route—no live-in assignments.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say. “I still have the interview tomorrow with the family in Holland Park?”

“Oh, they just called. They want to move it to Tuesday next week.”

My heart sinks. Rescheduling an interview is rarely good news. It either means the family is thinking of moving abroad, or they’re looking at options such as live-out nannies or nurseries.

“Anything else coming up?” I ask.

“It’s quiet. Never seen anything like it. It’s like twenty oh-eight. But things will pick up in February. I’m sure of it.”

She said the same thing about January.

“Okay, let me know if anything new comes in.”

I take a seat on a low wall outside a restaurant that’s not open yet and bring up a job site on my phone. If I’m going to find a temp job, it needs to be flexible enough that I can go to interviews at short notice. Maybe bar work that only requires evening shifts? Although, if parents work, they often want an interview in the evening. I should sign up with a temp agency. I just don’t have any experience doing anything other than looking after children.

A harried mother pushing a buggy with a toddler in front and an older child on a buggy board at the back comes toward me. The older child has her school uniform on and is singing at the top of her lungs, “I like to move it move it.” From the look on the mother’s face, she’s sick of the song. And who can blame her?

I smile, and then notice a navy kid’s rucksack working free of where it’s shoved under the buggy. It lands on the curb, just about to fall into the road.

“Excuse me,” I call, leaping to my feet.

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