Page 13 of My Orc Nanny

“Ben,” he blurted, then looked a little embarrassed. “I mean, I like Ben. Maybe next year the teacher can call me Ben.”

“Ben,” I agreed, shifting out of the way, welcoming him at the counter. “I’m making pizza. If you don’t want the spicy soup, would you prefer to help me?”

“Ilovepizza!” Ben’s face lit with a childlike sort of joy as he took the rolling pin I offered. “Pepperoni is the best.”

I was just digging out the pepperoni when Joshua threw his crackers on the floor. “Uh-oh!” he laughed. “Uh-oh! Uh-oh!”

Ben looked up from his work, and his expression fell again into disappointment. “Oh, Joshy,” he sighed, placing the rolling pin down.

“Uh-oh, Doshy!” the toddler laughed, kicking his feet. “Mo’ cackers!”

IwatchedBen’s joy fade as he surveyed the mess, and realized he was mentally preparing for the responsibility of cleaning up the mess.

“It’s okay, Ben,” I was quick to offer. “I’ve got this. You keep?—”

“I know where the broom is,” he interrupted with a sigh, heading for the pantry.

And I followed him, to gently take the implement from his hand. He glanced up at me in surprise, and I laid a palm on his shoulder as his little brother laughed at his own cleverness at knocking more crackers onto the floor.

“It’s okay, Ben,” I repeated quietly. “Igot this. You go back to working on your pizza.”

But he frowned up at me. “It’s my job to take care of him.”

“No, it’s not.” I tried to be gentle, but firm. “It’s your job to be a kid, Ben. It’smyjob to feed Joshua and clean up his messes.”

His frown deepened. “You’re not our dad. Or a real nanny. Dudes can’t be nannies.”

“Really?” My brows rose. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. You can explain your insights into gender roles as you make the pizza?—”

“I just mean…” Flustered, Ben slipped away from my hold and flapped his hands. “Real men don’t care about taking care of kids or cooking or cleaning up messes or whatever.”

And he’d still been willing to do all those things, albeit reluctantly? I shook my head. “Realmales do whatever their friends and family need them to do, Ben. That is why I’m here. Because your mother is now my friend, and she trusts me to take care of all of you. You arenotyet an adult,and thus you don’t need to worry about…” I shook my head again and spat out the words, “whatrealmen do. Who taught you such things?”

I could read from Ben’s body language, and the sour smell of his embarrassment, that he didn’t love the question. So I was surprised, as I swept up the broken crackers, to hear him mutter, “My dad was kinda a jerk.”

I didn’t respond, but the answer gave me plenty to think about as I finished cleaning and brought Joshua a banana. “What eats bananas, Joshua?” I asked him seriously.

The boy was reaching happily. “Monkey!”

“Here you go, little monkey.” I opened the peel just slightly and handed it over, watching in case I needed to peel it more. But the toddler happily attacked the fruit, peeling it himself.

I stepped back to see Ben watching me. He quickly shifted his attention to the dough on the counter. “Is this thin enough?”

I hummed, pretending to study the dough. “It could be thinner here and here.” As Ben bent back over the rolling pin, I cleared my throat.

“Your father isn’t here, Ben, but that doesn’t mean you have to be the man of the house.” I could see his ears reddening. “But that being said, and IknowI just gave you a whole speech on allowing me to take over responsibility…”

I trailed off enough to give him time to glance at me. When he did, I grinned.

“Could you tell me where the crayons and paper are? Or something I could give your little brother to do while wemake lunch? Because once we start saucing this thing, I don’t want to have to stop to entertain him.”

His grin seemed a little relieved. “How aboutyoufinish rolling the crust, and I’ll get the crayons? I can get the mozzarella cheese too.”

“Oh no, mister,” I told his back as he rummaged through what was clearly the junk drawer. “We’re grating our own. When I make pizza, I make it from scratch. Is thereanykind of organization here? What is this thing?” I asked as I held up what looked like a medieval torture implement.

“It’s a thingy to take the pits out of olives, I think,” Ben offered with a smirk, reaching around me to pluck two crayons from the mess. “I’ve seen Mom use it exactly once.”

I surveyed the drawer in confusion. “You’re going to help me organize this while the pizza bakes.”

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