Page 19

TELL ME WHAT TO DO

Sabrina

“I deserve a gold star for that feat of strength,” I tell Trevyn as we finish dragging boxes into my bedroom. We leave the other items in the living room. I’ll sort through them later, though I’m grateful to have had his help today.

“You and me both,” he says.

Barbara-dor lifts her snout and pants.

“And her too,” I add, stroking her soft head.

“Definitely. Hot Dad was something else, wasn’t he, girl?” Trevyn says to his mutt.

I roll my eyes. “Stop making it worse for me.”

“Please, you moved in with him.”

“I know, and look at this,” I whisper, like I’m afraid talking loudly will break the magic spell of this apartment—the magic being the wide-open space, the quiet, the fresh carpet smell. “And it’s all mine.”

Trevyn gives me a friendly smile. “It’s perfect, doll. ”

“But,” I say, plucking at my tank top, “I should change before I get the kids.”

“Please, all the moms dress like that,” he says.

“And yet I’m going for something a little more…demure.”

He gives me an approving wiggle of his fingers. “You’re so demure, Sabrina. So demure with your gold star and your resistance.”

“I am,” I say lightly, but resistance is exactly what I need. From Tyler’s thoughtful questions to his genuine concern, the man is definitely boyfriend material.

Not that it matters.

Not that anything will happen.

This place feels like more than just a step up—it’s freedom and a fresh start all at once. I won’t ruin it, even though I still have the hots for my boss.

As he waits for me, I change into jeans and a simple blue top—something that won’t make me stand out at school pickup with the kids. I’d rather blend in.

Then I stand in front of the mirror, take a big breath, and say quietly, “You can do this.”

It’s what I used to do before my skating competitions when I was younger. When I was older too. My parents would say it to me when I was waiting to take my turn on the ice—one of the few encouraging things they ever did for me.

At the time, I believed both that I could do it and they believed in me.

I’m not sure they ever truly did though.

They wanted me to train harder, jump higher, eat better, land stronger, wake up earlier.

Is that belief in me or hope in a human machine?

I’m not sure. But that’s okay because I learned how to believe in myself, both on and off the ice.

Thanks in large part to Elena, who helped me when I was ready to stop skating competitively.

When I had to figure out who the hell I was without the order, the rigor, the rules.

Still, even though I believe in myself, this job as a nanny is brand new.

I swallow nervously, picturing making mistakes and fucking up and not having the right answer for the kids.

Briefly, the desire to write down every detail of what I did flits through my head, chased by thoughts of training harder, faster.

But the thoughts are just that—thoughts. They’re also brief.

I’m on the other side of all that perfectionism.

One more centering breath, then I leave the bathroom and the pep talk behind. Grabbing my canvas bag with the fox illustration on it, I head up the stairs with Trevyn in tow. There’s only one little problem, and that’s why nerves are still chasing me.

“I’ve never nannied before,” I whisper to Trevyn.

“Don’t worry, doll,” he says, then dips a hand into his bag, handing over a small white kit with a red cross on it. “I got you a first-aid kit.”

My throat tightens with gratitude. I love that he thought of this, but the perfectionist in me dies hard.

For years, prepping for every competition wasn’t just a habit; it was survival.

I guess you can take the girl out of competition, but you can’t take the prep out of the girl.

I dip my hand into my bag and brandish my kit with a smile.

This time, though, prepping seemed like a good idea.

“Me too. I googled everything a nanny needs.”

He whistles in appreciation. “Look at you, slaying already.” He squeezes my arm.

“You’re going to do great,” he says, his tone shifting from playful to sincere.

“If anyone knows how to thrive under pressure, it’s you.

And hey, if anyone gives you a hard time, do what we always did on the ice—pick yourself up with a smile and move the fuck on. ”

“Words to live by,” I say.

My friend takes off, popping into the kitchen to say a quick goodbye to Tyler, who’s staring at the shelves in the pantry, a little zoned out .

“My Lyft is on its way, so she’s all yours now,” Trevyn says to my new boss, and I nearly swat my friend.

Tyler quickly snaps out of his stare at the cans of black beans to turn around, brow knit. But his expression clears quickly. “Thanks for helping. It was nice to meet you, Trevyn. If you ever want hockey tick?—”

“Yes, sir! Please.”

I laugh at my friend, admonishing him. “You are shameless.”

Trevyn arches an imperious brow. “Have you seen the warmups, doll?”

I point exaggeratedly to the door. “Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

“Oh hush,” he says, then turns to Tyler. “One, I’d love to see a game, and not just for the warmups. Two, I’m all about tit for tat, so if you ever want to catch an ice performance, we’ve got friends who are doing Ice Spectacle in New York later this fall.”

That’s one of the top ice productions in the world, blending an incredible light display with elite performances. “It’s supposed to be amazing,” I say, seconding Trevyn, but is Ice Spectacle even Tyler’s scene? “I doubt Tyler wants to see an ice-skating event though.”

“I would,” Tyler says immediately, owning it.

“Really?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says. “I lo?—”

Sounds like he’s about to say I love something…skating?

But then he stops, nodding to Trevyn. “What’s your number? I’ll get you Sea Dogs tickets, no problem.”

My heart gets a little glowy as Tyler trades numbers with my friend simply to give him tickets.

When we first arrived, I swear there was a hint of…

peacocking in Tyler, a bit of let-me-show-you-how-strong-I-am.

I honestly didn’t mind wa tching him carry all my things. It’s nice to see the change though.

When they’re done, Trevyn waggles his phone. “And the offer stands. If you’re ever in New York…”

“Thanks. I will,” Tyler says.

“My chariot awaits.” Trevyn flashes his winning grin, then coils up the end of Barbara-dor’s leash. “Be a good girl and say goodbye to our friends,” he says to the dog, who lifts her paw like she’s waving.

Then he sails off, calling out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” as he heads toward the door.

I’m not sure if the warning is for Tyler or me. But I blush anyway, then point toward Trevyn’s exiting frame. “He doesn’t believe in filters.”

Tyler smirks and says nothing at first—just lets the smile spread. “Something you have in common?”

“Mean,” I tease, then wag a finger. “Also, you promised.”

“I did. And the clock starts,” he says, looking to a brushed silver clock on the wall that looks a little vintage, then back to me and says, “now.”

I step into the kitchen, miming zipping my lips. “The filter is on,” I say, then nod to the pantry. “Are you trying to figure out what to make for dinner?”

He scratches his jaw. “Yeah. I’ll be home in time, but I just wanted to see if I needed to go to the store.

We usually shop at Natural Foods,” he says.

That market mostly carries organic foods, and it’s an inexpensive alternative to some of the bougier grocery stores.

I kind of love that he goes there when he doesn’t have to worry about the prices.

But instead, he chooses to shop where other people do.

“Why don’t I go?” I offer, since I want to go above and beyond for this new job. Show him I can be a great nanny. “Do you want to give me a list?”

“Yeah?” He sounds enchanted .

“Isn’t that part of the job?” I ask lightly, not because I’m confused but possibly to remind him. His mom did tell me as much when she offered me the post. “Agatha did some of the food shopping, right?”

He blinks, then drags a hand through his hair. “Right. Yeah. She did.”

“She worked for you for a while, right?”

“A couple years in Los Angeles, then here.”

“She was part of the family?”

He pauses, as if he’s considering. “In some ways, I suppose so.” He blows out a breath, like he’s recentering himself. “Anyway, I’m just getting used to this—this change.”

I relax a little bit. This conversation feels awkward but normal-awkward, like it should be this way as we adjust to each other in the house and on the job.

“Me too. But let me tell you something—I know my way around a grocery store.” I snap my fingers for emphasis but don’t add that my mother trained me to take my time in every aisle, reading every calorie list out loud to see if she’d allow herself to eat it.

I understood her urge to track everything—mine manifested differently.

“I can send you a grocery list,” he says, sounding more confident now.

“Perfect,” I say. But since I don’t know his preferences, I figure I should ask.

I want to do a good job after all—get the right foods for him.

“Now, tell me something—what do you like to eat? Do you want only organic? Do you avoid ultra-processed food? Do you need gluten-free? Dairy-free? Are you all about free-range eggs and so on? Give me the details,” I say, eager to learn every single thing.

“The team nutritionist has talked about ultra-processed food lately. It’s the new smoking, isn’t it?”

I give a little shrug. I don’t want to be judgy about food choices. But he sounds like he’s on the same page as me. “ Personally, I like food made from stuff I can mostly pronounce.”

“Agree, but one issue—I can pronounce romanesco, but I don’t want to eat it,” he says dryly.

“I promise I won’t pick that up, then,” I say, glad we’re on the same page about what to buy. Then I pause before adding, “Is broccolini on your no list too?”

“What even is broccolini?” he asks, like how does that vegetable have the audacity to exist?

With a smile, I answer, “It’s a mix between broccoli and Chinese broccoli.”

“Okay, fine, that makes sense. But riddle me this—why is broccoli so hard to spell? I never get it right on the first try.”

“I never get rhythm right on the first try,” I say.

“Or accommodate,” he adds.

I lift a finger, feeling a little zing of aha . “It’s the double ‘C’ for me. It should be abolished from the English language.”

“Yes, and broccoflower should be abolished from grocery store aisles,” he adds.

“So you want to nix double Cs and designer veggies?”

He adopts a pensive look, then says, “Sounds about right.”

“I’ll work on the first, though it might take some time, but I can definitely promise not to bring home fancy veggies,” I say, adding a dramatic hand-over-the-heart gesture.

His gaze drifts to my hand and lingers there for a few seconds before he snaps his eyes back up. “We’re on the same page, then,” he says. “And I’ll send you a list of acceptable veggies.”

List . I get a little excited over that word.

“Acceptable has a double C,” I point out, so I don’t let on how much I crave order.

His lips quirk. “You know…it does. Maybe we should play Scrabble. Though I think I suck at it,” he says, and that thought is entirely too tempting, whether he’s bad at it or not.

I can already picture us laughing, ribbing each other over playing easy words like “cat” and “dog” instead of tough ones like, say, “broccoli.”

“Maybe,” I say instead, keeping it open.

Tyler taps his phone and sets it down on the blue countertop again. “And the list is sent.”

Yay rules.

“Awesome, thank you. Would you like me to cook too?” I ask.

His brow scrunches as he weighs the question. “I like to cook for my kids,” he says, and my heart squeezes a little. It’s sweet how he wants to be a super dad and set a good example.

“Got it. Do you want to give me the other instructions? Tell me what to do.”

His hazel eyes darken, then almost glimmer. His jaw ticks.

I replay what I just said, and oh shit. It sounds like I’m asking for instructions in bed. Like I did that night at the hotel. “For the kids. To pick them up at school. Since I’m picking them up,” I add quickly, perhaps over-clarifying.

Note to self: The ramblings must cease.

“I knew what you meant,” he says, then moves closer to the counter, grabbing his phone from it again. “I’ll send you the address.”

I reach for mine, but as I do, my arm brushes his.

My breath hitches even though the contact is brief and accidental.

Am I really this affected by my new boss?

My arm answers me as tingles race down my skin, from my shoulder all the way to my fingertips.

Yes, you are.

“Please send it to me,” I say, but it comes out breathy.

I sneak a glance at Tyler. His shoulders are tense.

His fingers curl around his phone, knuckles whitening just slightly.

Is he…affected too? The thought sends a pulse of heat through me.

My mind slides back in time to the hotel room, the soft sweep of his lips on my forehead, the kind things he said to me—the things I should not be thinking of.

I’m here to do an excellent job as the nanny—not to flirt with the boss. I inch away, pretending to adjust the strap on my bag as he explains the details for pickup.

The whole time, I try not to inhale the woodsmoke scent of my boss that already drives me a little wild. But it lingers in my mind as I leave, hopping into my orange car to pick up his kids for the first time.

And when I reach the private school a mile away, I’m doing my best to ignore these fluttery feelings for the man I work for. I’ve got a job to do, and I need to nail it.

For a moment, though, I’m back at the edge of the rink, waiting for my name to be called.

Hoping I’ll be good enough. No, great.

But just like then, I square my shoulders, take a breath, and remind myself: I’ve got this.