Page 27 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie
She smiles. “I look forward to it.”
As she walks out, I exhale.
Mom smirks. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
I nod. “She was promising.”
Mom claps her hands. “Let’s keep going.”
A few interviews later, another candidate walks in - a young woman, maybe late twenties, with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. She sits with confidence, hands folded in her lap.
“Miss Daniels,” I begin, “tell us about your background.”
“I’ve been a nanny for three families, each for about two years,” she says. “I also have a degree in early childhood education.”
I glance at Mom. She looks just as intrigued.
“And why did you leave your last position?” I ask.
She smiles. “The kids grew up. The youngest started school full-time, so they no longer needed a nanny.”
A valid answer.
“What’s your approach to discipline?”
“Firm but fair,” she says. “Boundaries are important but so is understanding. Children act out for a reason. If you address the cause, you solve the behavior.”
Mom nods approvingly. “And how do you feel about working with a single father?”
She shrugs. “I’ve done it before. As long as the expectations are clear, I’m comfortable.”
I sit back, thoughtful. I like her. She’s professional, confident, and seems to know what she’s doing.
“We’ll get back to you soon,” I say.
She shakes my hand. “I hope to hear from you.”
As she leaves, Mom turns to me. “Two more to go, right?”
I exhale. “Yeah, yeah.”
The next woman walks in wearing a dress that belongs at a nightclub. She sits, crosses her legs, and gives me a slow smile.
“Anita,” I start, already bracing myself, “what do you think is the most important part of childcare?”
She leans in, dragging a manicured finger along the edge of my desk. “Aside from taking care of the kids?” She bites her lip. “Keeping the father happy, of course.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She gives me a slow once-over like I’m an all-you-can-eat buffet. “A nanny should take care of everything. And I do mean everything. Blake, a man like you…”
I cut her off. “Out. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
She huffs, flipping her hair before strutting away.
I rub my temples. I wave toward the door. “Next.”
The final candidate marches in, clipboard in hand, looking like she’s ready to lead a military drill. I glance at her résumé. “You have quite a bit of experience.”
