Nanny interviews weren’t supposed to be this stressful. Then again, I never pictured myself as a single mom to twins—let alone interviewing high-end nannies that Dom insisted on paying for.
I sat on my battered couch, phone on speaker, scrolling through polished résumés that looked more like LinkedIn profiles than childcare applications.
“You’re really sure about this?” I muttered, eyeing one candidate with a PhD in early childhood development and a client list that read like a Manhattan social registry. “She’s impressive. And expensive.”
Dom’s voice crackled through the line, calm and confident. “Let me handle the cost. I want you to feel good about whoever’s with our girls.”
I blew out a breath, frustration simmering. “I’m not used to people paying my bills.”
“I know,” he said. “But this isn’t a bill. It’s support. And you need it.”
I glanced over at the twins, asleep in their bassinets. I hated how right he was. “Fine. I’ll meet them. But I reserve the right to be skeptical.”
He chuckled. “You’re always skeptical.”
“Text you after,” I said, ending the call and rubbing my temples. Deep breath. I wasn’t quitting Suivante. Which meant I had to find someone I trusted with the most important job in the world.
Even if I hated every second of it.
Thirty minutes later, I sat at my kitchen table—baby bottles everywhere—facing three hyper-qualified nannies who smelled like money and competence. They rattled off answers about safety, feeding schedules, and twin care like seasoned CEOs.
Meanwhile, I sat in a milk-stained T-shirt and a messy bun, trying not to sweat through the interview.
“So,” I said, closing my notes. “That’s it?”
Amanda, the oldest, smiled. “Your girls will be in excellent hands.”
“Right. I’ll talk to Dom and let you know.”
They left with perfect posture and polite nods, and I collapsed into my chair like I’d just run a marathon. I glanced at Marissa stirring in her bassinet and sighed. “No idea if I’m ready for this. But here we go.”
By the next day, Amanda was hired. She had the warmest energy of the bunch—even if she still scared me a little. Dom handled the deposit. The contract hit my inbox.
She arrived for a trial shift looking like she could run a Montessori empire. I hovered while she breezed through bottle prep like she’d lived here for years. My stomach churned. Amanda looked calm. I looked… not.
“You’ll see them again soon, Ms. Green,” Amanda said kindly, after the tenth time I repeated instructions. “They’ll be fine. Enjoy your time.”
“Sure,” I said, heart pounding. Time? I’m just going to the restaurant to prep. But it felt like a colossal leap. Still, I stuffed down my motherly panic, grabbed my bag, and headed out.
Dom texted me en route:
You got this, chef. Amanda’s top-notch.
Me: Yeah, but I feel like a shitty mom.
Dom: They’re in safe hands. You deserve to get to do your job.
I breathed in, letting his confidence buoy me.
Fine, I’ll trust your fancy nanny.
Monday was the perfect day for stepping back into Suivante, that chaotic dance of knives, sauce, and a staff that functioned like a machine. A machine that felt like a memory that didn’t belong to me.
I walked into the kitchen itself, scanning the stainless-steel counters, the stacked produce crates. People bustled, but not in the frantic way of a dinner service. Mondays were for shipments, cleaning, reorganizing. The restaurant was closed Mondays, so it was the slowest day we had.
Standing there awestruck, I didn’t know where to begin. Abruptly, Carrie ushered a thickly built blonde woman into the kitchen, catching my attention with a quick wave. ‘Ella,’ she said, beckoning me over. ‘Meet Grace Winstead. Everyone calls her Winner.’
At first glance, Grace’s imposing stature—broad shoulders and a firmly planted stance—screamed confidence. A few strands of hair escaped her tight bun, framing a face that seemed both approachable and razor-sharp in equal measure. Her eyes flicked around the busy counters, taking in the clamor of pots and pans with a calm, assessing gleam. I caught a hint of challenge there, like she was sizing up not just the workspace, but me as well.
Grace chuckled softly when Carrie mentioned her nickname, a sound that held just a touch of mischief. ‘I do my best to earn the name,’ she said, flashing me a wry smile. “But nobody’s perfect.”
Carrie laughed. “Says the woman who finally made Mrs. Oberndorf happy.”
It was like hearing a record scratch. “What?”
Carrie’s head bobbed proudly, and Grace—Winner—explained, “She’s like any other society woman. Give them something they’ve never had, and they’ll love you for it.”
My head swiveled to the new kid on the block. I’d thought pleasing Mrs. Oberndorf was akin to finding truffles on Mars. That woman had been coming to Suivante since it opened, and every single time, she found something to complain about. We didn’t understand why she kept coming back, so we decided she merely enjoyed complaining.
I asked, “What did you—”
“Salisbury steak!” Carrie said, still laughing. “That old bat thought it was this exotic thing, not 1960’s TV dinner filler.” She turned to Grace. “Not that yours was that quality—”
But Grace humbly waved her off. “It was the Salisbury steak my mother used to make us. Nothing too crazy.”
“I guess I’ll have to try your Salisbury steak some time.”
She smiled, nodded, and assumed her work, leaving me and Carrie in the dust. I had to ask, “Who is she, really? Does she have blackmail on Oberndorf?”
Carrie shook her head. “I’m telling you, Ella, I’ve never seen that woman smile. I thought she was born without smiling muscles. But that night, she smiled at Winner. She’s been a polite good tipper ever since.”
“No fork throwing?”
“None.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know what to make of that. “Well, I better get into the swing of things.”
“Once you’re comfortable again, we’ll figure out what to do with Winner.”
“What do you mean?”
She explained, watching Grace work, “I’d hired her on temporarily, but I don’t know. She meshes really well here.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Well, I’m back, so she doesn’t have to stay on.”
“We’ll see,” Carrie said. “Chat later. I’ve got a meeting with distributors.” She left me standing there.
As I dove deeper into the kitchen, a few bussers and dishwashers gave me nods of acknowledgement, each too busy with their duties to say more than that. But Jean-Paul raised a ladle in greeting. “Welcome back, chef. You good?”
I forced a half-smile. “Never better,” I lied, mind drifting to the twins. “What’d I miss?”
He jerked his chin toward the prep station. “Winner’s over there, reorganizing. She’s got ideas about organization, the menu…” His lip curled in a disapproving sneer.
Fucking perfect.
“I’ll handle it,” I said, ignoring the tension in my gut. At least Jean Paul was on my side about Grace.
Sure enough, she was at the far counter, carefully labeling containers of fresh herbs and talking with some line cooks. “Chef,” she greeted me, that confident smirk never leaving her lips. “Welcome back.”
“I see you’re making yourself comfortable around here.”
“Just trying to help,” she replied lightly. “Carrie said if I prove myself, I might stick around.”
My mouth twisted, but I forced a wry grin. “Well, don’t get too comfortable.”
“A girl can dream, right?”
I let out a short, forced laugh, ignoring the spike of stress. “You’ve got shipments to sort. Don’t let me keep you.”
She flashed a grin. “Sure thing, chef.”
I exhaled sharply. My phone buzzed in my pocket—no doubt Dom or the nanny. My hand lurched, for it, almost dropping the thing into a pile of fresh basil. I slid it out, seeing only Dom’s text:
How’s day one with the nanny?
Me: So far, so good. No meltdown texts. Just my meltdown.
His reply came quick:
Dom: You’ll be fine. I believe in you.
A faint smile tugged my lips, tension easing. But the day slogged by in a haze of sorting produce, reorganizing the pantry, and triple-checking that Winner didn’t overshadow my authority. Meanwhile, guilt gnawed at me for leaving the twins, even for a few hours.
What if they need me? What if the nanny’s all show and no real care?
But each time I checked my phone, no messages of doom popped up. By midafternoon, I’d gotten so used to hearing the rest of the staff calling Grace by her nickname, I found myself doing the same.
I double-checked inventory with a pencil jammed behind my ear, cursing under my breath when I realized we’d run low on tapioca flour. “Son of a bitch, I told them to keep it stocked. Now we gotta scramble.”
“Everything cool, Chef?” came Winner’s bright voice behind me.
“Fine,” I said sharply. “Just a missing tapioca flour.”
She arched a brow. “Carrie said we can do without it until next shipment. We have alternatives.”
My temper flared at her cavalier tone. “I know how to run my own damn kitchen. Just go handle your station.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
With a surly glare, I returned to my notes. The rest of the staff gave me a wide berth. Good. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
Finally, the short shift that felt like it had been lifetimes-long came to a close. We’d processed all shipments, the place was tidy, and Carrie called me into her office to debrief. I tried to listen, but my mind drifted to Dom, to the twins, to the nanny, to the big secret I still kept from Dom about Leo.
After a while, I dragged myself out of the restaurant, the city’s evening bustle welcoming me back.
Back at my apartment building, my nerves twisted as I climbed the stairs. Being at Suivante had made me think about how Leo and I met—he had been a part of a large party, all of them drunk or tweaking, celebrating a sale of one of his pieces. He was cocky, and that was all it took for me to give him my number.
What an idiot I was.
But that memory today pressed the need to tell Dom everything. I couldn’t hide this forever, and sooner was better than later for everyone involved.
I still didn’t want to tell him, though. He’d hate me forever, and I couldn’t blame him for that. But he was a good man. He wouldn’t take that out on the girls. This would crush only me and him.
I shook off the grim thought and opened the front door. An evening hush greeted me—plus the faint whir of a fan.
“Ms. Green,” Amanda, the nanny, greeted me with a warm smile, gently rocking Summer in her arms. “Everything went smoothly. No issues at all.”
They were fine, but I wanted to cry. I cleared my throat before saying a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
She handed me a report of diaper changes, feedings—God, so official—and I realized Dom’s money had bought the best. I hate feeling indebted, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a lifesaver.
With the twins settled, Amanda headed home, leaving me in the quiet. My shoulders sagged. No meltdown from them.
Just one for me.
I was failing as a mom and failing at work and failing at romance.
I collapsed onto the couch, phone in hand. I typed a quick message:
Babies are good. Nanny’s a pro. I’m exhausted, and I owe you a big conversation soon.
Dom: I’m here whenever you’re ready. We’ll talk on the date if that’s okay.
My heart hammered. Sounds good.
I stood, crossing to the window, arms folded. Outside, the city buzzed with life, neon signs flickering. My reflection stared back—tired. I looked bone tired.
Sighing, I raked a hand through my hair. “Screw it,” I muttered. “If I can handle a new nanny and a mouthy temp, I can handle telling Dom about Leo.”
