Page 17 of Nine Week Nanny

"I have a master's degree. I'm a licensed therapist. But truth be told, I did put in an application to be a server at a restaurant. Also over-qualified, but at least I can keep some of my dignity."

"That could work. It's temporary, and it will give you something to do other than pacing around that apartment."

I walk to the kitchen and yank open the fridge door, staring at the contents without really seeing them.

"I don't know. Maybe something will open up in the therapy space."

"In a market you don't know, with no connections, in the next five weeks?" Maris pauses. "I think you're making this harder on yourself than it needs to be. There is no shame in taking a temporary job doing whatever before your real job starts.”

The cold air from the refrigerator washes over me as I stand there, frozen. Flashes of memory surface—making Play-Doh monsters with the Donovan twins, teaching little Emma to tie her shoes. The way children's faces lit up when they mastered something new.

No. That was a side hustle while I was in school. A means to an end.

"I didn't move to Palm Beach to backslide," I mutter, shutting the fridge harder than necessary.

"You moved to Palm Beach for a fresh start," Maris counters. "Sometimes those look different than what we expect."

"I'll figure something out." My voice sounds thin, unconvincing even to my own ears. "Thanks for listening to me unravel. I need to check my mail. It's my daily activity that gives me some stability."

"Sloane—"

"I'll call you later."

I end the call and toss my phone onto the counter with a clatter. The silence rushes back in, but Maris's suggestion lingers in the air around me, impossible to ignore.

My phone buzzes again almost immediately. Maris's happy picture of her holding up a fish fills the screen. I almost let it go to voicemail, but guilt wins out.

"Miss me already?" I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder.

"I remembered something! My friend Jenna from undergrad worked for this high-end temp nanny agency in Atlanta during breaks. She made bank. I'm talking serious money."

I roll my eyes even though she can't see me. "Maris..."

"Just Google it! Palm Beach has to have something similar. Think about it, all those wealthy families with their fancy vacations and charity galas. They need someone qualified to handle their kids."

"I'm not sure what's worse, babysitting or waitressing." I sink onto a barstool, absently tracing circles on the granite countertop. "Though I guess kids are in my wheelhouse."

"Trust me, kids are way easier than restaurant customers. At least with children, when they have a meltdown, it's developmentally appropriate."

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Fair point. The last time I waitressed, a grown man threw a tantrum over his steak being medium instead of medium-rare."

"See? And you wouldn't be just any babysitter. You'd be, like, the Mary Poppins of Palm Beach. With credentials."

The tightness in my chest loosens just a fraction. "I do have a way with difficult children."

"Exactly! And rich people love throwing money at problems."

"And their children are the problems in this scenario?"

"You said it, not me."

We both laugh, and for a moment, the overwhelming weight lifts slightly.

"Thanks, Mar. I'll look into it. LYLAS,” I say, our thing since freshman year—love you like a sis.

After we hang up, I sigh deeply and pull my laptop onto my lap. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type.

high-end nanny agency Palm Beach.