Home>>read Babysitter Wanted free online

Babysitter Wanted

By:Mia Madison



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?"   


"Yes, that's me."

She holds out her hand and I shake it like this is some kind of business meeting. I guess it is, in a way, given I'm employing her for six weeks.

"Pleased to meet you, Melissa."

Yes, I'm very pleased, for more reasons than one. I need her help like yesterday so I can get back to work and damn, she's even more stunning up close. But hell, down boy, I can't get carried away with how she looks.

I'm in no freakin' state to be thinking like that about her, or any woman, right now. I just split up with Angela, for fuck's sake, the whole relationship scene sucks, I just lost my sister and I have a baby landed on my lap to boot.

I'll have to keep my cool with her if this is going to work. I can't mess this up. It looks like it will take me all the weeks that Melissa is going to be here, helping, to get a permanent nanny for Lucy.



I look at Andrew and gulp. Not what I expected from his picture. At all. I don't know what happened, but somehow Dad got the businessman of the year look, with the expense account and charity dinners, and his friend got the firefighter's broad shoulders and long legs and nothing to show for the years but a few crinkles around his deep brown eyes. Not even a shred of silver in his dark brown hair.

Andrew points to the sign for the parking garage. "The car's that way. You okay? You have everything?" When I nod, he takes my suitcase and I end up scurrying along behind him as we make our way to the car at some speed. I can hardly keep up with this giant of a man.

"Sorry," he says, looking behind him, to make sure I'm still there I guess. "We have to get back for Lucy."

"It's okay," I manage. I'm panting and out of breath a bit. Some of my breathlessness is due to the rapid pace at which we're crossing the airport arrival area. I don't think I move any faster even when Katrina and I see that the "hot donuts now" sign is lit.

But some of my shortness of breath is due to what I can see as I trail behind Andrew. I can't help noticing his body as I follow him. He keeps himself in shape. In very nice shape. Damn! This is going to be awkward if I don't get my hormones in check. I swear my ovaries were jumping up and down for joy when he shook my hand.

We don't talk much in the car-enough to be polite, but no more-comments on the traffic, mainly, and the cold January weather.

I mention how sorry I am about his sister and her husband, but he doesn't say much in response. I guess there's not much to say. I just thought he'd say more. I don't know. Maybe he doesn't want to dwell on it.

"Do you want some music on?" Andrew cuts through my thoughts after a while, with his smooth English accent. I could listen to that all day. "There are a few CDs Angela left there."

Angela? A girlfriend? I know he's not married. I wonder what she's like, this leaver of the CDs. She has to be attractive to be with a guy like him. I can't imagine him with anyone ugly.

I put on Coldplay which helps fill the silence, and luckily Beech Hill, on the south coast of England, is only fifty miles from Heathrow or London, so it's not long before he pulls up in a street of old stone houses.

"This is home, now," he says, nodding towards the nearest house. He gets out and opens my door, then he leaves me to get out while he deals with my case.

I look over at the house. It's lovely, a typical English cottage of the type I've seen in the movies or on TV shows set in the past. I'm surprised not to see carts or carriages in the street or women in long dresses and cloaks scurrying home after dark.

"Nice place," I say, as we go through the little wooden gate and up the garden path.

He has to bend his head to get through the front door. "People weren't very tall when they built these cottages, but I usually manage to get inside without concussion now." He laughs and that transforms his face. I feel myself melting under his gaze.

And then he pulls back as if remembering himself and points to a door on the right of the little hallway. "Your room's in there. I'd better go and get Lucy. Take a look around the house, make yourself at home."

The room is cozy, for sure, with just a twin bed, nightstand, a small cupboard with a couple of drawers in the base, and a rail for hanging clothes. But it will be fine. I sit on the bed and remind myself that it's just six weeks. I'll be okay here.

And then, in no time at all, the front door opens again. Andrew is back with Lucy.



Beatrice said Lucy needed changing when I went to get her but I said I'd do it. Beatrice looked like she needed a rest. She's probably been walking the floor with the baby to keep her calm.

But back in the cottage, it's like Lucy sprang a leak worse than a colander full of overcooked cabbage and I can feel it seeping right through to my T-shirt. She starts wailing again. I swear that sound is designed to get a bigger reaction than any siren on the way to a blaze.