Babysitter Wanted

By: Mia Madison

A Steamy Older Man Younger Woman Romance



I'm going to Europe! I can hardly believe it. Six weeks in England earning some cash babysitting for my dad's friend not too far from London, and then Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, maybe more places if I can fit them in. I can't wait.

My friend Katrina is jealous and not just of my trip. When I told her Andrew, Dad's friend, was a firefighter, her eyes lit up like a firework on the 4th July. “I know he'll be your dad's age or something, but just think of all the guys he works with in the fire department. Get him to introduce you to all his firefighter friends, and you're sure to find a hottie English guy. Scoop one up and bring him back after your travels. And an extra one for me. Save plenty of space in your suitcase. Call him a souvenir—no problem at border control.”

“Very funny. I'm going to work. The guy just lost his sister. He's not going to be taking me out on the town introducing me to anyone. And I'll have a baby to look after, remember.”

“Oh yeah, there's that.” I knew she would think I was crazy taking on a job like that. She crosses the road to avoid a baby carriage, and I have a strong suspicion she keeps away from pregnant women in case it's catching or something. “All those diapers to change. What were you thinking?”

“I'm thinking, six weeks feeding and bathing the baby, changing diapers, then Europe. I can do anything for six weeks.”

“But you know nothing about babies.”

“I do. I babysit the neighbors' kids all the time. And Mom always used to let me help with Daniel. She let me do everything as long as she could keep an eye on me.”

“Oh, I forgot, the little squirt.” Katrina doesn't have time for my little brother. As far as she's concerned, at twelve, he's just a nuisance, hanging around the house, playing his video games at full volume when we want to chill. I love him to bits, though she's right, at times he can be around too much, asking obnoxious questions about stuff he wasn't supposed to overhear.

But now, less than two weeks after I agreed to babysit, the plane is landing at Heathrow and my bravado has disappeared. My stomach is in knots. What have I let myself in for? Six weeks looking after a baby. It's not like a few hours babysitting in the evening when the baby is already in bed. And will I really remember what to do from helping Mom with Daniel all those years ago?

Dad says his friend will have a card with my name on it at arrivals. I hope so, because I will never recognize him from the grainy pictures Dad showed me from their college days. Andrew and Dad meet in London all the time when Dad is over on business but typical of him, no photos. “We're not like you and Katrina. We have a few beers, catch up and done. We don't post every new pair of shoes and night out on Facebook.”

A young guy across the aisle catches my eye and smiles at me. “Two hours late. It could be worse. Your first time in Europe?”

Damn! Do I look that nervous? I'm hoping to look competent and in control. He introduces himself as Paul and I chat to him to take my mind off the idea that I might have made a huge mistake agreeing to help Dad's friend out.

Paul makes me laugh. “Don't worry, the natives are friendly here—weird, hard to interpret at times, despite claiming to speak English, but they're usually safe even if you feed them after midnight.” He’s here taking a course, something to do with marine biology, and then he’s going to take a few weeks off in Europe, too.

But then the plane lands with a soft bump and taxis along the runway. Eek! There's no putting off the inevitable now.



Where the hell is she? The plane landed twenty minutes ago. My elderly neighbor, Beatrice, is looking after Lucy and she'll be wondering where we got to this late in the evening. I lift the card with “Melissa Stevens” on it higher as more passengers make their way into arrivals, but before Melissa catches sight of her name, I recognize her from the picture Duncan sent me.

She looked okay in that photo—nice long blonde hair, pleasant, ordinary—but the photographer should be shot. This girl is a knockout with her blue-green eyes, soft curves and easy smile. She's talking to a guy in a checked shirt, chatting away, smiling at him, exchanging numbers from the looks of it.

I don't like that at all. I told my friend I would look after his daughter. And I want to start right now by tearing up that scrap of paper in her hand and telling whoever that is with the checked shirt and the long hair to fuck right off.

“Melissa,” I call sharply and she looks up in surprise. Maybe I made her name sound too much like a rebuke, but then she smiles and tells checked-shirt guy she has to go. He puts his hand on her arm and whispers something in her ear and I bristle. What the ...? She smiles at him again and comes over. “Andrew?”

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