My Son's Sitter

By Amy Brent

I was hired to be his son's sitter,

But now I want more.

I think he wants it too,

And we are stuck in this battle of wills.

This is so wrong!

Then, why does it feel so right?

Those hard abs and that sexy beard…

Did I tell you I saw his huge boner?

OMG…Why do I want to be more than a sitter?

This is a 20k word novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Brent
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393408505

Book preview

1

Clayton

If I didn’t know any better, I would say that the city is shedding grey flakes of its skin.

I walk with one leg thrown in front of the other, not fixing my gaze on anything in particular. Right now, my thoughts hold sway. In just a few minutes, the new nanny is coming over. A.k.a. the single thing I’ve been trying to avoid for the past seven years. But there’s only so long that I can argue with my poor overworked mother before I had to even admit it to myself: I need the help.

It hasn’t been easy staying focused on my business with Winston on my mind. He’s too young for school, and I’ve had more than enough of a taste of daycares in this area to know that they weren’t for us.

With Briar tree Daycare, the two bumbling women in charge somehow allowed my son to wander not only off the premises but into a neighbouring forest. It’d taken hours before he was recovered. The next one, Cheery Seven Day Program, wasn’t much better. Turns out the kids there had a penchant for sociopathy, and several of them had ganged up on and beaten poor Winston for a good five minutes before the incompetents in charge had noticed. And the last, Gage Drive, which I’d tried against my better instincts, was merely a happy-go-lucky play place where all the children sat around listlessly, wiggling toy tigers and lions. Winston had actually fallen asleep. Yes, I’m not going to let my son near any of that anymore. I don’t care about the cost, mentally or physically.

He deserves better. It’s not his fault that his mom is a crazy drug addict who ran off, or that his dad is a workaholic who needs to find the next big thing.

The longer it’s taking me to figure out my next move, the worse the outlook is looking.

Sure, the Tickling Tots animal series, starting with the koala and ending the most recent one with a ridiculously fat alligator, has given me more than my fair share of success. For the last three years it has been sold out in toy stores across the nation. But I can’t rest on my laurels indefinitely. Sales have been slacking for months, and the writing is on the wall — it’s damn well near carved there. I need to find something else.

But all that doesn’t matter if my son isn’t well cared for. And, I can’t sit at home playing with Winston and keep my business afloat. So, there it is. I need a nanny. Besides, if my mom of all people is okay with it, I should be too.

As I approach, I allow my eyes to rest affectionately on the cobblestone façade of my house. Here has always been more of a home to me than that old severe red-prick prison I lived in with mom and dad, back when they were still together.

When I go inside, my mom is in the foyer within seconds. She gives me a big hug, pressing her rosy lined face into my shoulder.

As she pulls away, she gives me a stern smile.

I would tell you good luck, but you won’t need it. Remember, this girl came with the highest recommendations.

I nod, trying to smile. I know better than my mom does. I’m the one who scoured every Internet search engine known to man for nannies, narrowed down the hundreds of applicants to my post, and, ultimately, made the final decision. Our nanny-to-be, Stevie sounds promising enough. Through her well-described and blurry-photoed profile, as well as our numerous exchanges, I’ve come to learn that she’s a twenty-one-year-old university student who sounds upbeat and trustworthy. Although truthfully, I can’t pinpoint why she’d seemed like the right fit. Gut instinct, maybe.

Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and greet her with you? My mom asks, pausing at the door.

Thanks, but no. You have to get to work, and I don’t want you hemming and hawing over everything.

As well-meaning as my mom is, she’s a bit of a worrier. Actually, scratch that, she’s a lot of a worrier.

Inside, Winston hurtles up towards me.

Daddy!

I sweep him up and around in my arms.

You ready for your new nanny, buddy?

As I set him back down on the hardwood floor, his brow creases.

I have to hold back a tender smile. My son reminds me of myself more than he knows. Not just in the physical sense, that he shares my dark red hair and deep blue eyes. Personality-wise, he’s often serious and inquisitive too.

It’s not going to be like the daycares, right? He asks for about the seventh time.

Leaning down, I smooth a cowlick of hair on the back of his head.

It’s going to be nothing like the daycares, I reassure him, first of all, she’s going to stay here at home with you. So, you can just play with your toys or do whatever you want. Second of all, this girl, Stevie, is extremely nice and she’s trained to have fun with kids just like you.

Seeing that grave forehead furrow diminish, I say, Today is just a trial. So, at the end, if you don’t like her, she won’t come back again.

This sets Winston into a definitive smile.

So, I’ll be able to spend the whole day with you?

A guilty arrow pierces my heart.

Leaning over, I collect Winston in my arms, patting his head reassuringly. How do I tell him that, as much as I want to spend each and every day with him, I can’t? That, already, our finances have been suffering from my extended absences from the work I should be doing.

As I pull away, Winston’s four-year-old face is angled towards me hopefully, the sprinkle of freckles on his nose all scrunched up.

We’ll figure something out, bud, I tell him, promise.

Ding dong dang dong… ding dong dang dong…

Both of us wheel around to the door.

Taking Winston’s hand, I squeeze it.

That’s her, I say, putting on my