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I left the interview at the small café in Little Italy, knowing I’d bombed it.

How could I have graduated second in my class at Boston University without the social skills to be hired anywhere in Boston?

I hated taking money from my parents to pay rent, buy groceries, and pay to live.

Six months ago, I thought I had everything figured out.

I had earned a coveted internship at a tech startup and was dating a co-worker (yeah, I missed that red flag).

I was expecting to be offered a full-time gig right after graduation.

I still viscerally felt the humiliation as my so-called boyfriend presented my five-year marketing plan to the board as his work. I ran from the boardroom and ignored the litany of text messages from Zander that arrived throughout the night.

Zander: Callie, you know I needed that more than you did.

Me: No, that was my work. That was yours to win on your own merit. You stole my work.

Zander: But you have your parents to fall back on. Callie, I have nothing.

That was the last text that came through because I blocked Zander’s number after that.

I had never considered that maybe he resented the differences between our families.

My father was the CEO of a major pharmaceutical corporation, his salary was public knowledge, and he was frequently vilified in the press.

I had always resisted dating people my parents tried to set me up with and thought that I’d found someone in Zander who loved me for me. But nope.

After the interview, I walked around Little Italy, finding myself in front of Modern Pastry on Hanover Street.

If all else fails, order yourself a cannoli.

Minutes later, I allowed the powdered sugar to scatter all over my shirt, not caring that I was a disaster as I waited for the hit of sugary sweetness to soothe my soul.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, I looked at the screen to see the name Monica Drew on the screen and a picture of me with my best friend at my graduation party.

“Hey,” I answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Oh, just eating my feelings, you know. Another failed job interview,” I answered, shrugging.

“Cannoli?” Monica asked.

“How’d you guess?” I guess I was predictable. Cannoli’s had been my emotional support snack for years; the sweet, creamy pastry had seen me through a record number of crises.

“Let’s just say I know you too well. I’m gonna to need you to dust off your shirt and get to Beacon Hill in a half hour. I have a job for you.”

I should be embarrassed that Monica knew my shirt was coated with sugar, but we’d been through much more over the years.

“Oh God, Mon. Why do I feel like this is bigger than just a job?”

“Just trust me, it’s perfect for you. And the pay is enough to get you off your parents’ bankroll. You love traveling, too.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you much more until you sign an NDA.” Monica was a personal assistant to several high-profile clients and was constantly in contact with people who needed NDAs. To her, agreeing to an interview without knowing what the job entailed was par for the course.

Curiosity killed the cat because less than five minutes later, I’d signed the NDA and run a quick Google search on the parties, learning that the men were professional athletes.

I still couldn’t figure out how I fit into this equation until I found a brief article on the paternity results of their little boy. No.

Me to Monica: Is this a Nanny position?!?!

Monica: Kind of.

Me: ‘Kind of’ being a nanny is like being a little bit pregnant. You either are, or aren’t a nanny.

Monica: OK. It’s definitely a nanny position.

Me: Why would you set me up to be a Nanny?

Monica then sent me the salary and benefits disclosure, and my jaw dropped. It also included first-class travel reimbursement nationwide and room and board in Colorado and Boston.

Monica: You won’t need help from your parents anymore.

Me: Shit. Send me the address.