9. Addy
CHAPTER NINE
Addy
There are few things more humbling than standing in a billionaire’s kitchen and realizing you still have no idea what this five-year-old will actually eat.
I mean, yes, technically Ethan explained things earlier. There was a schedule. A pantry tour. A very serious discussion about bedtime and routines and nutritional manipulation, or whatever polite phrase rich people use for “children are tiny tyrants with opinions about pasta shapes.”
But now it's just me, this absurdly beautiful kitchen, one very quiet child at the island with a toy plane, and the growing realization that every item in the fridge appears to have been selected by someone who’s never once had to negotiate with a stubborn kindergartener.
I stare into the refrigerator. There’s sparkling water, almond milk, and some kind of expensive yogurt. A drawer full of produce so pristine it looks decorative, leftover grilled chicken, and tiny glass jars of something green that I’m fairly sure cost more than my old electricity bill.
“Okay,” I mutter. “This isn't food. This is a wellness retreat.”
Behind me, Oliver looks up from his plane. “What?”
I close the fridge and turn. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
He nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dad does that too.”
That's somehow both comforting and concerning.
I lean against the counter and look at him properly.
He’s been quietly occupied for nearly fifteen minutes while I unpacked the most important parts of my life, got mildly emotionally attached to my new bedroom window, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that Ethan helped carry my suitcase like some kind of infuriatingly competent male lead.
Now it’s just us.
Which should feel normal, because this is the job. This is literally what I'm here for.
And yet I'm still deeply aware that I'm in a penthouse with a child I’ve only met twice, a dog who has already claimed me, and a boss who looks at me like he’s trying not to remember things.
Cool.
Very normal.
I cross to the island and sit opposite Oliver. “So. Important question.”
He looks instantly suspicious. “What?”
“What do you like to eat?”
He squints. “Food.”
I stare at him.
“Wow,” I say. “Specific. Helpful. Love that.”
He shrugs and returns to his plane.
“Okay, let me rephrase,” I say. “If you could eat literally anything for lunch, what would you choose?”
He thinks about it. “Pancakes.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes.”
“That's intense.”
He looks up again, entirely serious. “They’re good.”
I put a hand over my heart. “You know what? You make a compelling argument.”
Captain, hearing the word good and assuming it applies to him, trots into the kitchen with the swagger of someone who’s never once doubted his own importance.
He sits beside me and places one heavy paw on my foot.
“Hi,” I say, glancing down. “You’re very intense.”
“He does that when he likes people,” Oliver says.
I smile despite myself and scratch behind Captain’s ears. He sighs like a Victorian lady overcome by romance.
“Okay,” I say, pushing back from the island. “Pancakes for lunch is something I might allow in a weaker moment, but I feel like your father would stare at me in disappointment if I fed you syrup after twelve p.m.”
Oliver considers this. “Probably.”
“Right. So we need alternatives.”
I open the pantry again and stare at its immaculate, expensive shelves.
Crackers. Artisan pasta. Dried lentils. Rice. Nut butters with labels so minimal they feel condescending. There are ingredients here, sure, but not the kind you can throw together when you’re trying to make a child comfortable on day one in a new routine.
There’s no cereal shaped like cartoon animals. No dinosaur nuggets. No applesauce pouches. No tiny yogurts with bright lids and questionable sugar levels.
No emergency child food.
Which feels like a major design flaw.
“I think we need supplies,” I say.
Oliver perks up slightly. “Like what?”
“Like food that acknowledges your existence.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Shall we go out?”
Another pause. Then: “Where?”
“That,” I say, grabbing my phone, “depends on what’s nearby and whether I can survive my first outing as your nanny without accidentally losing you in a luxury grocery store.”
He seems to think this over, then says, “I won’t get lost.”
“That's exactly what someone says before they get lost.”
Captain barks once, as if volunteering to supervise.
I look at both of them.
“Well,” I say. “This feels less like childcare and more like a low-budget heist, but sure. Let’s go get snacks.”
By the time I’ve found Oliver’s shoes, convinced Captain not to steal one of them, located the right jacket, found a different jacket because apparently the first one is “too itchy,” and double-checked that I have my phone, keys, and enough dignity left to function in public, I’m already sweating.
“Do you need the blue plane?” I ask as Oliver heads toward the door.
“Yes.”
“The whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally, I support that,” I say. “Practically, I predict you’ll ask me to carry it in six minutes.”
“I won’t.”
Captain noses my hand.
“You,” I tell him, pointing at Captain, “are staying here.”
The betrayal in his eyes is immediate and theatrical.
Oliver frowns. “Can’t he come?”
“Not this time,” I say. “I’m still learning how to leave the building with one child and my dignity. I’m not adding a golden retriever to the equation.”
Captain huffs like this is deeply unreasonable.
“I know,” I tell him. “You’re very hard done by.”
Five minutes later, I’m in the elevator with a child, a tote bag, and the distinct sensation that if anything goes wrong, Ethan will somehow know.
The doors open onto the lobby.
And of course…
“Addy!”
I close my eyes briefly.
Diane, naturally.
She appears from nowhere, or perhaps from the exact corner of the lobby where women like her wait for narrative developments.
She’s holding a coffee cup and wearing the expression of someone who absolutely didn't just happen to be there.
“Well,” she says brightly, eyes flicking between Oliver and me. “Look at you already settling in.”
“We’re heading out for supplies,” I say.
“Supplies,” she repeats, in the tone of someone who knows this means information.
Oliver, traitor that he is, says, “There’s no good food.”
Diane gasps. “Oh, dear.”
I point at him. “Thank you for your discretion.”
He shrugs.
She crouches slightly to Oliver’s level. “And how are you doing, sweetheart?”
“Fine,” he says.
Diane smiles, then looks at me again. “Across the road, there’s a little café, Brewed Awakening. Very family-friendly. They do simple food, and half the neighborhood practically lives there.”
That sounds… dangerously convenient.
Also potentially expensive.
But I’m tired, overwhelmed, and not entirely ready to improvise dinner in a kitchen where the olive oil looks imported by monks.
“That actually sounds perfect,” I say.
Diane beams, pleased with herself. “You’re going to do very well here.”
That's either encouragement or prophecy, and I’m not sure I trust either one.
Still, I smile. “Thanks, Diane.”
She waves us off with the kind of cheerful authority that suggests she’ll absolutely ask follow-up questions later.
We step outside into the crisp Chicago air, and I immediately see the café across the street.
Brewed Awakening.
Brick front, big windows, warm light. One of those cozy modern places that somehow manages to look expensive and welcoming at the same time.
“This one?” I ask Oliver.
He looks across the street and nods. “It has muffins.”
“I’m sold.”
The second we walk in, I understand why Diane said half the neighborhood lives here.
It smells like coffee, vanilla, and fresh bread, and there's this warm hum of conversation that feels lived in instead of loud.
Hanging plants spill from shelves, mismatched wooden tables are scattered throughout the room, pastries gleam behind glass, and a chalkboard menu displays handwriting far too pretty to be trusted.
There are people on laptops. Two moms with strollers. A guy in a suit pretending he’s not having an emotional relationship with his espresso. A little toy corner by the window with books and blocks and a miniature kitchen.
“Oh,” I say softly, because honestly? That’s adorable.
Oliver spots the toy corner too. “Can I go there after?”
“Yes,” I say. “But first food. Because if I release you into the tiny fake kitchen before you eat something, I may never get you back.”
We step up to the counter.
A brunette with bright eyes and a black apron glances up and smiles. She looks around my age, maybe a little older, and has the sort of easy warmth that makes you feel less like a customer and more like a person who accidentally wandered into someone’s living room.
“Hey,” she says. “What can I get started for you?”
I glance at the menu.
Then immediately realize I’m too tired to be ambitious.
“Okay,” I say. “Potentially stupid question. What do you recommend for a five-year-old who’s suspicious of vegetables and committed to pancakes?”
She grins. “Grilled cheese, fruit cup, and one of the mini hot chocolates if you’re feeling generous.”
I look at Oliver. “Thoughts?”
“Grilled cheese,” he says immediately.
“Excellent. We’ve achieved consensus.”
“And for you?” she asks.
I hesitate because here's the thing: I don’t have much money. Yes, I have a job now, and yes, technically I’m living in a penthouse, but I still have motel brain. Broke brain.
Still… I’m exhausted, my feet hurt, and I’ve been holding myself together with caffeine and spite for the better part of a week.
So maybe I deserve one thing.
“One drip coffee,” I say. “And… maybe a turkey sandwich?”
“Coming right up.”
Oliver tugs my sleeve. “Can I have the hot chocolate?”
I look at his face.
Then at the girl behind the counter.
Then back at him.
“You know what? Yes. Live dangerously.”
He nods solemnly, as if accepting a military honor.
I pay, trying not to wince internally at the total, and carry our little tray toward a table near the toy corner.
“This place is nice,” I say.
Oliver is already eyeing the blocks. “Can I go after two bites?”
“We’re negotiating already?”
“I need to play.”