Broken Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Blake North

  “You are walking in the park with Lydia. She is not holding your hand. She runs ahead to go after a bunny in the bushes. A man grabs her and runs with her. What do you do?”

  “What kind of park is this? I have never seen a kidnapper at any of the parks in the city. I even chaperoned forty students on a field trip to—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I run toward him, shouting that he has to let her go. This draws the attention of any bystanders, law enforcement or otherwise, alerting them to trouble. I tackle him from behind and bring him to the ground with a knee to the back. I release his grip on Lydia by pinching the nerve beside his neck. I get to my feet, then stomp his wrist so he can’t hold on. I tell her to run to safety. By this time, bystanders have called 911.”

  “What if you can’t catch him?”

  “Why would I not be able to catch a grown man who has a small head start and is trying to keep hold of a flailing child? Trust me, if you pick up a kid who doesn’t want to be picked up—whether it’s bedtime or you’re a kidnapper—they kick and wave their arms and shriek. She’d be making it difficult for him, and it would slow him down. Also, I won more awards for sprint than I did for distance. I’d catch him.”

  Phew!

  “Okay. Next scenario. I’m out of town overnight. Lydia gets a sudden high fever and cough. What do you do?”

  “I try to bring the fever down with a tepid bath and Tylenol. If it doesn’t respond, I alternate Tylenol and ibuprofen and bathe her pulse points and try to keep her hydrated until her doctor’s office opens in the morning.”

  “It’s a Sunday. Her pediatrician does not have weekend hours. Go!”

  The hell…

  My heart pounds like I’m losing on a game show or a ridiculous Saturday Night Live skit.

  “I try to control the symptoms and see if the fever is responsive to over the counter treatment. If she’s not vomiting a lot, which holds a risk of dehydration, and she isn’t in breathing distress, I hold the line and call you in the morning for instructions regarding whether you want her taken to ER.”

  “Incorrect. You call me immediately, regardless of time, and take direction from me.”

  “Fine. But fevers come on quickly, and they’re usually a virus. They’re not an emergency unless there are other major symptoms.”

  “What if it’s strep throat? Untreated, it can become scarlet fever!” he says.

  “We’re not out on the prairie. If a peek at her throat indicates strep, I’d take her to the doctor for a screening and antibiotics.”

  “She’s allergic to penicillin. She could go into shock.”

  “I would know what she was allergic to,” I protest. “I have a feeling you’ll have it tattooed on my arm,” I mutter under my breath.

  “I heard that, Miss Sloan.”

  “Forgive me, but your worst-case scenarios seem a little… much.”

  “I have three more. Are you ready?”

  “Fine,” I say, trying not to groan. I can’t win with this guy. He’s obviously intelligent and very cautious about his child, but it seems like paranoia to me. I’ll humor him only because he’s so incredibly hot, but that’s only going to get him so far in this interview, so he’d better not try his luck.

  “Third possibility. You see on the news that there is a lockdown at her school due to a possible intruder. What do you do?”

  “I don’t call the school because the phone lines will be tied up. I check the school app for updates and wait to see if they’re dismissing early. I don’t want to get in the way of the cops if they’re involved.”

  “Wrong answer. You go get Lydia. You have my driver take you there. There’s a guard on Lydia at all times, but he’s discreet. He doesn’t enter the school. You’d call him to notify him that she needs to be removed from the premises and that you’re on your way.”

  “Removed?”

  “Her guard has a locator on her activity tracker. He can ping her whereabouts on the app and get to her whenever necessary. He has access to blueprints of the school and could utilize ductwork to reach her. Alternately, he would use force to secure her.”

  “What? You mean he has a gun on school property?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said, “I said he would use force. He might have to break down a door or incapacitate an intruder.”

  “I’m supposed to believe he isn’t armed? It sounds like you’re planning a military strike to get a kindergartener out of a classroom,” I say, “This seems a little intense for me. I’m interviewing for an action movie instead of a child care job. I’m sorry but it doesn’t seem like I’m what you’re looking for. I wish you the best of luck in finding a nanny who is a good fit for your family. I think it’s obvious that it won’t be me.”

  I stand up and give an awkward nod and step back out into the hallway. Momentarily disoriented by the row of identical white doors, I pause for a moment.

  “Turn left to exit,” I hear him bellow from the closed office behind me. I roll my eyes. I turn left and don’t stop until I’m outside waiting for my Uber.

  I pick up a gallon jug of inexpensive rosé on the way home. I plan to wait for Angela to get home, and I vent about the interview fiasco.

  ***

  “For fuck sake. I was scared that he’d hit a switch and I’d fall through a hole to the dungeons if I got a question wrong. It was bat crazy,” I say, slurping the cheap wine.

  “So was he really that hot? As in Ryan Reynolds in Deadpool hot or like the Rock in anything? Except Moana. That was creepy. I’ve never been attracted to a cartoon before. Ugh,” Angela asks excitedly.

  I laugh at her reaction.

  “Thanks for cheering me up. And he’s about the size of the Rock. He’s built like a bouncer or a Navy SEAL or something. He’s got these super bright blue eyes that see right through you.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re the one undressing people with your eyes, and not the other way around, missy.”

  “Maybe a little, but mainly I was under constant fear of extreme scenarios of what could go wrong. Like, imagine you take the kid to the zoo and all the poisonous snakes escape. Armed only with your shoes, which snake do you kill first? WRONG ANSWER—like, anything you say will be wrong!!” I shake my head.

  “Oh, I’ve got one. Imagine you take the kid to get a donut, but on the way to the bakery you stumble into a sniper nest. How do you convince the assassins to let the child go free and kill you instead?”

  “Good one. Or, you’re at Chuck E. Cheese and hear the family nearby discussing the fact that little Johnny just peed his pants. Do you: A. whip out your sanitizing wipes and clean all reachable surfaces so that Lydia doesn’t accidentally touch a pee-contaminated arcade game, B. spray Lysol directly on the offending family or C. grab Lydia in a fireman’s hold and sprint from the place before a life-threatening germ gets on her?”

  “It’s secret choice D. You’d never get to take her there anyway because it’s crowded with people who could be assassins and contagious,” Angela said, downing her glass of wine.

  “I need some chips,” I say in defeat. It’s not even that funny when you think about it. This poor kid is never going to get to have a kitten because some time in history a cat gave a kid some deadly disease,” I say miserably.

  “So you’re forever separated from Mr. Overprotective Hot Guy,” Angela smirks at me.

  “It’s not that. I could’ve helped that little girl. She must be lonely.”

  “What if he’s lonely? Bet you could help with that. Huh?”

  “That’s it,” I announce, “No more wine for you!”

  “I’m not the one who read too much Fifty Shades and gets all hot for strict men now,” Angela declares. I laugh but also agree. In fact, I may watch that movie again before bed and compare the now seemingly scrawny guy who played the lead to the breathtaking masculinity of Ridge Carter.

  What has my life come to?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ridge

  I�
�ve come a long way from the housing projects, and I’m damn proud of everything I’ve achieved. However, all I’ve built and worked for is worth nothing unless I can give Lydia the life she deserves.

  I saved her once, when she was only a year old. I came home at lunch to surprise the girls, and Cynthia was not surprisingly passed out on the couch from whatever pills she’d taken that day. It makes me shudder to think that Lydia could have swallowed the pills on the coffee table.

  I know Cynthia needed help, and it was that one truth that warranted to stand by that woman through three stints in rehab—but when she left our baby girl alone again, so she could sleep with her drug dealer, I was officially done. She didn’t care about Lydia—just the ridiculous unhealthy addictions she insisted on pursuing.

  Fuck that.

  My baby deserves better. I’ll be damned if my daughter grows up with a junkie for a mother, neglected and scared all the time. I grew up that way and there’s no way in hell I’m letting anything like that near my child.

  The way I see it, she’s better off with a full-time nanny. The Montessori program was great, and Lydia loved it, but the building safety was an issue, by my standards, which I knew were ludicrous by most people’s standards, but I didn’t give a damn.

  Now that the Rativan mob has me in their crosshairs, I’m not taking any risks. Lydia is going to have the best care with the most trustworthy guards.

  I switched her to St. Agnes for kindergarten because it’s small and the perimeter is easy to monitor. The administration was more than cooperative about my private security for Lydia. They have a couple of high profile government officials’ kids there so they’re no stranger to security detail. I also vetted the entire faculty with a deep background check, and everyone came up clean. I’m comfortable with her new school. It’s the child care after school that’s been a concern.

  The idea of an in-home nanny is perfect. I can control the environment. Lydia will get undivided attention, plenty of creative activities and reading time. Too bad the first nanny was an idiot; she posted a selfie with Lydia online. I made her sign a nondisclosure agreement that included no photographing or recording Lydia at any time unless I expressly requested it, after which the image was to be deleted immediately. Using filters to put fake dog ears on my five-year-old and putting the picture online for the world to see was obviously a terminating offense. She cried a lot when I fired her. It didn’t do anything but annoy me and prove she was even more immature for the position. I don’t want someone careless and stupid with Lydia. That’s not the role model I want for her either.

  I’ve got two more interviews from the agency before I decide. I was hoping for a Mary Poppins type; hyper-capable and professional, that kind of thing.

  Judging by the red head that just walked in, Mary Poppins isn’t on the menu. I’m pretty sure Julie Andrews never wore high heeled boots with a skirt so short while on the job with the Banks children. The middle-aged woman crosses her legs high on the thigh, and the hem of her skirt creeps up even more. If I tilt my head, I’m positive I’ll be able to see if she’s wearing underwear. I’m also positive she’s not.

  “Mr. Carter, I’m so happy to meet you. I can’t believe you’re taking time to interview me personally, a man as busy as you are,” she says, exaggerating her sentences to attempt to seduce me. “I’m Poppy.”

  “Like the troll?” I say idly.

  “What?” She looks really insulted.

  “It’s my daughter’s favorite movie. Poppy is the princess in the troll movie,” I tell her, wondering why the hell a nanny doesn’t know anything about what’s popular with children.

  “Oh. I thought you were calling me a troll. I guess that’s okay then, if it’s a princess. My favorite princess is Merida because she has red hair like mine,” Poppy said.

  “How nice,” I say, wondering why the agency would send this person my way.

  “I’m really good with hair. I was in cosmetology school for a while, but all the teachers were jealous of me and gave me bad grades. But I can give your daughter highlights or cut her hair or dye it pink or whatever for free. Or your son. If it’s a boy, he can have pink hair, I’m not prejudice,” she smiled.

  “I have a daughter. The one who likes Poppy in Trolls. Remember?” I say, even more annoyed.

  “Oh yeah. Well, does she like pink hair?”

  “Probably, but no one will be coloring her hair as she is only five years old. There isn’t a lot of conclusive data that hair processing chemicals aren’t harmful neurologically—”

  “Oh, they’re safe! I’ve been coloring my hair since I was ten, and I’m totally fine! Now, the agency said I should check your policy on sleepovers.”

  “Lydia has never been to a sleepover. She’s too young,” I claim.

  “Not for her. For me maybe! I mean, unless I’m spending my nights with you….” She looks me up and down in a way that makes me want to show her the exit. I shake my head in aversion.

  “The position of nanny reports to me, but serves only my daughter. I assure you, if I may speak frankly, that I’m specifically looking for household help, not a mistress or concubine.”

  “Then I’ll want to have my boyfriend stay over,” she discloses.

  I shake my head grimly, unsure why I haven’t dismissed her yet. “No. The residential portion of the position does not allow for it. It would be unacceptable for my five-year-old to walk in on you and your boyfriend doing God knows what…”

  “Okay, I get it. You seem really tense. I learned massage techniques when I was in cosmetology as well. Want a rubdown?” She offers.

  She gets up out of her chair and comes around the desk to my side. I want nothing but for her to go away. She puts her hands on my shoulders. I bolt up immediately out of my chair, brushing her off.

  “No thank you. I think we’re done here.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started,” she says, pushing her ample cleavage up against my chest. I back away.

  “Please go. Someone will be in touch with you regarding the job,” I say, taking two more steps back from her. I don’t want her to climb all over me. I make a mental note to call the agency and ask who the utter moron was that sent Sleazy the Troll my way.

  I then spend an hour on the phone with my contact at the FBI. Drake informs me that even though the surveillance we conducted as contractors was instrumental in putting away Sam Rativan and his lead enforcer, the crime family still has influence on the outside. I already know this, but thank him for informing me. No threats have been made specifically toward my security firm, but I briefed my staff two days ago on taking extra precautions anyway. Better to be safe than sorry, I have learned. The syndicate is more likely to go after the judge’s family or the federal prosecutor than the local security firm that got the audio recordings, but I wasn’t going to let my guard down when my daughter’s safety was on the line.

  The next candidate comes for her interview. She’s early. She’s young, although her work history was strong. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. She slumps in her chair and doesn’t say anything. I give her the iPad and instruct her to take the test, but stops every couple of questions to get a tissue and wipe her eyes and blow her nose. When she finishes the test, I want to disinfect the tablet, but hold myself back. I look at her results and ask if she’s feeling ill.

  “No. I’m—I’m fine. Please. Let’s do the interview. I need—I need a new place to live.”

  She starts sobbing. A lot. It’s high pitched and quite uncomfortable to watch. I would much rather she quit doing that. Instead, I hold out the tissue box. She can’t see it to take one because she’s got her head in her hands. I get up and set the box on the floor by her foot because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to touch her or pat her shoulder. She might think it sexual assault or worse cry all over me. I don’t know this woman. She’s clearly unstable. Any sane person would have rescheduled if they couldn’t pull themselves together. Sanity was too much to ask apparen
tly.

  I wait for her to gather herself enough to answer questions. I check my email. I go over my notes from the previous interviews, looking for anything to pass the awkward time. She’s making a sharp hiccup sound now every few seconds that’s possibly worse than the loud sobs. I was not trained for this. I was a Marine security guard, not a chaplain or a counselor.

  “Miss,” I say finally, “Is there someone should call to come get you?”

  “No. He LEFT ME this morning,” she shouts before lapsing into sobs again.

  So that’s the problem. Some guy dumped her. I feel bad, but she’s a total mess. It’s not like I’d leave my child in her care. Showing up for the interview in this condition was irresponsible, and I don’t have room in my daughter’s life for irresponsible people.

  “That’s unfortunate. I wish you better luck in the future. My secretary will call you a car and—”

  “No. I want to stay. I want this job. It’s a girl, right? The kid?” she says.

  Out of courtesy, I nod yes, I have a daughter.

  No way is this woman getting near Lydia.

  “Good. I can teach her everything I know. Like to never trust a man. Fuckers are all out for what they can get. One minute they love you, and then the next minute they throw you out so they can fuck the girl they said was just a friend from work. Friend my ass! I knew he wasn’t just comforting her when I saw them. She was just humping his leg. I told myself, you have to trust him. You made a commitment. What’s a little dry humping at work? But no, he couldn’t leave it at that…he had to kick me out so he can move her in. I hope she has herpes. I hope she gives him herpes—”

  I interrupt her, holding up my hand.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be suitable. I don’t consider five to be an appropriate age to discuss the pitfalls of relationships or the possibility of sexually transmitted infections. We’re done here.”

  “You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you my experience—” she protests.