Page 24 of Dr. Single Dad

I know the feeling of needing more time. Space to breathe. Maybe now I have a job and I’m not sleeping on someone else’s sofa, I’ve started to feel I have a bit more time to myself. “Okay, well I’ll transfer the money tonight. Send me your new address.”

“Speaking of new addresses, did you start your new job yet?”

“I did. I’m enjoying it.”

“I don’t get how you want to live in someone else’s house. Don’t you want a place of your own?”

Yes. The answer isyes, I would prefer to live in my own flat, rather than have my nose pressed against the window of someone else’s life. But as a live-in nanny, I can maximize my earnings. A little brother who still needs help with his rent deposit plus a little sister who has university fees landing every term, not to mention the rent and food and books and all the rest of her living expenses—it all adds up. Their needs come before my preference for my own place.

“It’s much easier this way,” I say. “No commute to work. I don’t have to worry if the boiler breaks down or my flatmate moves out. No responsibilities beyond buying my own shampoo.”

“No one believes you have no responsibilities. For a start, you’re a nanny, and you’ve practically raised me and Eddie since…” He trails off. I don’t like the way this conversation is turning.

“I’m in the bath and the water’s getting cold. I’ll call you later in the week.”

“I love you,” he says, his voice a bit louder than before.

“I love you too. Never forget it.”

We hang up and despite my bathwater being just the right temperature, I get out of the bath and wrap myself in my favorite towel. It’s worn and fraying at one edge, but my first nanny used to wrap me in this towel as a child, and I can almost feel her arms around me when I use it.

I have a shower in the bathroom attached to my bedroom, but I’ve used the bath across the hall for a soak. I press my ear against the bathroom door, to make sure I’m not going to open the door and walk straight into Dax. It sounds like the coast is clear, so I twist the doorknob, poke my head out to check and then scurry across to my bedroom. I close my door and exhale.

Phew. I avoided my boss while I was half-naked. I feel like I deserve a cup of warm milk for that.

Dax’s mother was right. This flat is the smallest place I’ve ever lived. Usually, I’d be on a different floor to the family I’m working for. In my first job, I was in the basement flat and had my own kitchen. In my third job, the family had an entertaining kitchen and then a separate kitchen that actually got used by the chef and the housekeeper and me. There was never any danger I’d cross paths with my employer getting hot milk. Here, it’s different. We’re on top of each other. I can’t exactly hear him breathe in the next room, but it’s close.

I literally let my hair down and get changed into my pajamas—white with embroidered dots all over—then pop my head out of the door to see if the coast is clear. It must be an adjustment for Dax too, going from living on his own to having two women in his space.

The kitchen looks dark, so I dart out of my bedroom and along the corridor to fix my hot milk and leave a little gift for Dax. His mother was right about that, too—he needs to bond with his daughter. I don’t mind helping that along in any way I can.

I head straight to the cupboard with the saucepans. It takes me about three seconds to discover that I’m not the only one in the kitchen.

A bare-chested Dax is leaning at the kitchen counter right in front of me, and I jump so high, I nearly hit Mars.

“Oh hi,” I say.

He looks at me, looks away, then does a double-take. I probably should buy a dressing gown. He shifts and lifts his plate up as if to offer explanation. I try to focus on what he’s eating and not on the way his jogging trousers hang low on his hips, or the way a trail of hair disappears under the waistband. Looks like he’s eating peanut butter on toast.

“You’re in the dark,” I say.

He shrugs but doesn’t offer further explanation.

“I’m just going to make myself some hot milk. Do you want some?” This shouldn’t become a routine. Dax eats late, I make myself a hot drink. We bump into each other, neither of us wearing much.

Maybe I should get a kettle for my room.

He turns to face me and I have to look away. The way the muscles in his arms tense and relax—it’s too much. “No thanks.”

If I’d known he was going to be in here, I would have sacrificed hot milk. It’s definitely not worth being in such closeproximity to my ridiculously hot, taciturn boss. I need to focus on the negative.

The negative.

The negative.

He didn’t hire me right away. He’s a little rude. Unwelcoming. Doesn’t like small talk. Complained about the carful of personal items I brought on move-in day, and implied I might be a bit of a clutterbug.

That’s better.

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