Page 22 of Billionaire Babysitter

I let out a laugh. Jason is a hilarious guy. We’ve all been raised in New York. I’d have more respect for him if he liked the Mets. “Your dad’s just being funny,” I say. “I wouldn’t trust him when it comes to sports.”

Chloe hums in disbelief, frowning like she knows some secret that I don’t. Then she turns back to the book she’s reading and starts ignoring the game again. She’s missing out. This is really exciting.

The next batter strikes out. It’s the end of the inning. The TV turns to a commercial break, and Noah turns to stare at me. “Uncle Lucas, after the next round—”

“Inning,” I correct.

“Oh, yeah. After the next inning, do you want to play trains with me?”

Chloe doesn’t look up through her book, but doesn’t keep her feelings hidden and mutters under her breath, “No, of course he won’t. And he’s not even gonna give us lunch.”

“Hey, if you’re hungry, I’ll feed you,” I say, put out at the idea that they think I’m useless. And I know I haven’t really given thatmuch evidence to the contrary, but we’ve got the stuff in now. I can at least make them a PB and J. I think I’ve even watched Sophie enough times that I could fry an egg now.

I’m adaptable. I can learn. And especially after whatever it was that happened last night, I guess I have to pull my finger out.

“Okay, then,” says Chloe, snapping her book shut. She has the glint of challenge in her eyes again, one I’ve come to recognize with cold clarity. “I’m hungry.”

I get to my feet. I’m a little mad that I’m gonna have to miss some of the game, but I’ve been tasked with looking after the kids, and I don’t want to disappoint Sophie again. That hurt more than anything.

But before I can even start heading for the kitchen, I notice Ava crawling around on the floor. It seems to be her natural habitat, so that in itself isn’t a worry, but the way she’s started attacking Sophie’s handbag with her mouth is.

“Hey, stop that!” I rush over to her, pick her up, take Sophie’s handbag away from her, and carry her over to the sofa to deposit her somewhere she can’t cause any more damage. She pouts at me for spoiling her fun. But she seems to forgive me pretty quickly, because she immediately goes back to putting stuff in her mouth.

She’s got what looks like a business card grasped in her little hands. I decide that it’s probably not a great idea for her to eat paper, but that it’s not going to do so much damage in the fourteen seconds it’s going to take me to move Sophie’s bag somewhere out of the reach of children who think they can eat anything they can get their hands on. I don’t let her out of my sight as I dump the bag on the counter, though.

Once it’s safe, I rush back over to wrestle the card away from Ava. She moans and glares as I fight her for it, but overpowering a toddler isn’t that hard, so I’m left with a grumpy little gremlin and a damp business card making my fingers all slimy. Ugh. This thing is heading straight for the trash.

But despite the grossness, the smudged text on it catches my eye.Andrew Richardson, Hiring Manager.

Hiring? That cannot mean what I think it does — right?

“Come on, kids — lunchtime,” I say absently, giving myself an excuse to go into the kitchen so I can search though Sophie’s bag again. I shove some bread into the toaster and send the kids on a quest to find some sandwich toppings in the fridge so they can’t catch me out. Undoubtedly, they’d drop me right in it if they saw this. All of them are such goody-two-shoes. And the last thing I want is Sophie knowing I went through her stuff.

I glance at them, and, satisfied that they’re all occupied, I dive back into the bag. My blood runs cold as I find more business cards and little notes to remind her of interviews. On the one hand, who in the world still uses paper in this day and age? But that’s an irrelevant thought in the face of the other hand.

Sophie is looking for other jobs. Sophie wants to leave me.

Quickly, I shove everything back in her bag and lean nonchalantly on the counter, staring at the toaster as I wait for it to ping, my mind and heart racing. Has this not been a good job for her? Have I not paid her far more generously than I should have? Has she not had a competitive amount of vacation?

Her words echo in my head: have I ever really thought about how much she does for me?

As the kids wander over with their arms full of jelly and cheese, I try to push thoughts of Sophie out of my mind. I don’t succeed. She’s lodged herself into my mind so fully that everything I see makes me think of her.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Lucas?” asks Noah, tugging on my shirt.

“Nothing, kiddo,” I say unconvincingly. But I’m pretty sure kids don’t understand nuance, so I don’t try particularly hard to mask my misery. The idea of having to do more work than I already do is an awful one.

But that’s notallit is. Imagining my life without Sophie — it’s emptier. As I vaguely supervise the kids making a mess, I wind back time in my head, making lists of the stuff I’ve asked Sophie to do every day, and stuff she’s done without me saying a word. The last couple of weeks are obvious. She’s put in so much work for these kids, so much that I’m not even sure we’d all have survived it without her.

And going further back, weeks and months and years, I’m noticing hours and hours of unpaid overtime, of late nights and early mornings, of printing and coffee runs, of everything being done exactly the way I want it with a humility that I can’t get from most other people. She’s done everything and more for me.

Have I ever once said thank you?

“Can I have a knife?” asks Chloe, interrupting my internal monologue. I grunt in annoyance and pull a table knife out of the drawer to hand to her. She probably can’t do that much damage with it.

I pay attention for three seconds to what they’re doing, and despite jelly now covering the surfaces, they’re not causing any trouble. So I go back to my thoughts.

They’re all of Sophie.

---