Page 2 of Puck Your Nanny

He folds his hands over the laptop, still not closing the damn thing. "And, you know," he continues, his voice taking on this whiny edge that always grates on me, "I don’t like feeling like a gopher and personal chef, either."

I frown, my hands clenching into fists.

What is that supposed to mean?

I was told that dinner was provided, that they would cook, and breakfast and lunch were on me. I buy my food. I’ve even offered to cook dinner plenty of times. He always makes some excuse. My food is bland. I don’t season properly. I set off the smoke alarm that one time.

He’s the only person who’s ever complained about my cooking. It was perfectly fine when I cooked for the Millers.

And gopher? Seriously?

They told me to put things on the shopping list. They offered because I don’t have a car, and they insisted that part of my rent would cover it.

Five hundred dollars, plus an extra three hundred I insisted on adding, was supposed to cover groceries and household stuff.

Eight hundred dollars.

Eight hundred dollars to live in a cramped room and now listen to him complain.

I shift, crossing my arms, a hard knot of resentment forming in my chest. It’s not like I’m living high on the hog here. My savings—the little cushion I had after the Millers left—is disappearing.

I apply for jobs daily. I’ve applied for everything: retail, waitressing, even that dog-walking gig that required a positive aura.

Nothing. Zip. Nada.

Brent, oblivious to my internal rage, closes his laptop, setting it on the coffee table with a thump.

He’s got this perpetually messy, sandy-brown hair that he runs his hand through constantly, and a smattering of freckles across his nose that somehow make him look even more irritating.

He leans back, stretching his arms over his head with a loud groan, like he’s the one who’s been put upon.

Freda, on the other hand, is almost his opposite—dark, sleek hair always pulled back in a tight ponytail, pale skin that seems to absorb all the light in the room.

She usually has this bright, vibrant energy, but right now, she just looks small. Defeated.She still hasn’t said anything. Just sits there, picking at that cushion.I want to shake her.Say something! Defend me!

But the silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

"Look," Brent starts, his voice now taking on a tone that suggests he’s being incredibly reasonable, "it’s just not working out."

My breath catches.

Not working out? That’s it? No discussion, no attempt to—I don’t know—talk like adults?

He continues, "We need the space."

We?

I glance at Freda, desperate for some kind of sign, some flicker of disagreement, but she avoids my gaze, staring intently at her hands.

My best friend.The one who swore, through thick and thin, we’d always have each other’s backs.

A wave of nausea rolls over me.

My best friend. Since middle school. And now—nothing.

"So." Brent’s voice regains some of its earlier sharpness. "We need you to be out by the end of the month."

The end of the month.

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