Page 21 of The Single Dad

“Yes,” I say. “I’d be thrilled to accept your offer.”

“That’s good to hear.” Despite the stoicism in his voice, I can hear a note of relief, and I think back to his desperate attempts to calm down the crying child. He must have really needed a nanny.

Still, as pleased as he is, I can tell that he’s still somewhat detached.

“We can meet to sign the paperwork as soon as you’re available,” he continues, in his cool, removed way. “Once that’s settled, I will send someone over to help you transport your personal effects to my house.”

At that, my stomach flutters. I’d almost forgotten that I would be a live-in nanny. I look around my small, cramped apartment, trying to quell my sudden burst of anxiety.

As much as I hate it here, I wasn’t expecting to leave so abruptly.

“I’ll have a room prepared for you,” he says, oblivious to my nerves.

I swallow, composing myself. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Sullivan.” Mr. Sullivan seems like the way to go. He’s my boss now. I don’t want to seem over-familiar.

“I’ll send you my personal assistant’s number. You can text her with your earliest availability for the documentation.” He pauses, then adds, as if required to by a script, “Welcome aboard.”

The call disconnects, and for a few minutes, I’m left sitting on my couch, staring at the blank wall ahead of me.

This is really happening.

* * *

It’s growing dark outside my apartment’s dingy windows as I stand in the middle of the main room, looking around at the bare space.

Almost everything is packed up to take to Mr. Sullivan’s place—all of my clothes, personal effects, and some of my art supplies are in a few bags and boxes, leaving the apartment quite empty.

I sigh, taking a last glance around the room, then head to the door. Almost everything is downstairs already, in the car that Mr. Sullivan sent to pick me up. I lock the apartment and trudge down to the ground level.

Mr. Sullivan’s driver is waiting outside of the car, gloved hands folded in front of himself. The car itself is a sleek black sedan, expensive-looking, with polished silver accents.

The driver opens the back door for me, and with an uneasy nod in his direction, I slide inside. All-leather upholstery surrounds me, and I think of my new salary again, wondering idly just how wealthy Mr. Sullivan is.

It feels strange to be driven around like this. When I was over to sign the paperwork, he told me that he would be sending a car. I protested, but he insisted, so here we are.

The car winds its way through the city’s traffic, eventually pulling up in front of the familiar row of brownstones. I smile, reminded that, at the very least, I’ll be living much closer to Noah now.

The driver helps me out of the car, and starts to unpack my bags from the trunk. I approach the front door cautiously, expecting to run into Mr. Sullivan again, with his unearthly face and cold eyes.

Instead, an older woman in a carefully-tied apron meets me at the door. Her hair is in a long plait, brown streaked with threads of silver. She reaches out to shake my hand, smiling.

“You must be Sophie,” she says. “Welcome. Mr. Sullivan is busy at the moment, so I’ll be showing you around today. My name is Laura.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, accepting the handshake. I’m a little surprised and, I’ll admit, disappointed. Mr. Sullivan may be intimidating, but it’s my first day on the job and I wish I could have gotten the tour from him.

After all, the more time I spend with him, the less frosty he’ll seem. Right?

Laura guides me into the house, which, of course, is beautiful. It feels more lived-in than Noah’s place.

It’s spotless, the wooden floors gleaming and polished; there’s artwork hanging on the walls, a tasteful mixture of modern and classical. I stare at some of the framed works as I pass by them, awed.

Despite the decor, it doesn’t feel like a museum. Here and there lie pieces of evidence that a child lives here—scattered toys, an old high chair stashed in a closet.

Laura walks me through the kitchen, the dining room, and the main living area. I pass close to the mantelpiece, looking at all of the photos of Archer, who really is an adorable kid.

She walks me to the second floor, pausing next to the first door on the landing. “This will be your room,” she says.

I step inside, and immediately, I’m blown away. This one room is close to the size of my entire apartment. There’s a king-sized bed with fluffy white sheets; I have to stop myself from running over to it and diving into the pillows.

---