Page 11 of One Pucking Life

The doorbell rings, and I look at Logan.

He taps his hands against his knees and straightens. “All right. Let’s find you a nanny.”

I head toward the front door. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Our first interview is with a sweet-looking, plump older woman. Definitely not the “hot nanny” Logan was hoping for, but in appearance alone, she looks like she’d be great with children, and I’m feeling hopeful. I invite her into the living room, fighting to stifle a laugh as I catch Logan desperately schooling his features. If he was praying for eye candy, this woman is the exact opposite. Not that I care. I’m not here to find love—just someone who can connect with Caroline and, hopefully, make my life easier.

She introduces herself—though the name flies straight out of my head—because I’m completely distracted by the thing hanging from her neck. It’s long, dark, and wrinkly, like a mole, a skin tag, and a shriveled-up earthworm had a baby. And once I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

Caroline’s cry cuts through the awkward silence from the other room.

“I’ll get her,” the woman announces, already on her feet before I can respond.

I shoot Logan a look. He raises his brows and mouths, “Hell no.” I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it.

But wormy growth or not, if she’s qualified, she might be my best shot.

She comes back a minute later, Caroline cradled in her arms, looking very comfortable.

“I just love babies,” she says warmly. “She’s about four months?”

“Yeah.” I nod, managing a weak smile.

And then it happens.

Caroline, curious little creature that she is, reaches up and pinches the woman’s… thing. She grabs it between two tiny fingers and gives it an experimental tug. I’m frozen in horror.

But instead of protesting, the woman laughs. Actually laughs.

“She likes it already,” she says with a grin.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I manage, swallowing down a wave of bile.

“Oh, don’t be,” she says, still chuckling. “My last kids loved it too. We call it mylove nub.Littles love to squish it and squeeze it. It’s very soft. Like a sensory toy that’s always available.”

“Oh. Really.” My voice is dry and brittle. I don’t dare look at Logan. I canfeelhis barely contained laughter vibrating next to me.

“So,” I try to rally, “tell me about your last family?”

She smiles, clearly oblivious to the war going on inside me. “They were wonderful. Three children, ages?—”

Her words dissolve into white noise as I watch my daughter continue her exploration. Tug. Squish. Tug.Flick.She presses her tiny thumb and forefinger into the nub like it’s the greatest discovery of her short life.

And I’m going to be sick.

I extend my arms toward Caroline. “I can take her.”

“Nonsense,” the woman says, waving me off. “She’s happy here.” She continues her story, but I’m not listening.

Oh, Caroline. Please stop.

Squish.

Pull.

Squish.

Flick.

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