The absolute last thing I needed today was some loser following me around to shout indecent and frankly disturbing proposals at me.

So, of course, as soon as I left the third roach-infested one-broom closet I'd checked out that week, a dude in a raggedy bomber jacket popped up to whistle at me: "Hey, beautiful. Why you walking like that? Where you going? I'm talking to you, hey."

I forced myself to not look over my shoulder, increasing my step as I buried my chin deeper in my coat. On my way here, I'd passed through a nice neighborhood crammed with stately mansions — maybe, if I could just reach one of those unreal, glamorous streets, this creep would stop bothering me.

"Didn't your mama teach you it's rude to walk away when someone is talking to you? What's wrong with your legs anyway?"

Sorry, sir. If there was something my mama had ever taught me, it was to punch anyone who annoyed you, although that wasn't a lesson I'd ever repeated. Ma was the size of a bull with knuckles hard as steel from cutting down trees all day, but I was as light as a pair of socks and as soft as a bunny's fur, or so Ma had told me many times. I doubted I could inflict any real damage on another person.

I hurried to cross the street, already one foot lifted from the pavement — a car horn honked at me, and I startled heavily, almost crashing headfirst into the asphalt. My heart raced, the driver showing me their middle finger as they sped by. Oof. That was close. Although, it might not have been that bad to get hit. It wasn't like I was living such a great life anyway.

Twenty-five years old I was, crashing on my baby brother's couch, no job, no degree, and, I remembered with a pang as I touched the tiny butterfly on the inside of my wrist, no girlfriend.

I huffed and resumed walking, glancing over my shoulder to see the scrawny man still leering at me.

Hulking houses with painted shutters and spacious gardens lined up on this side of the neighborhood, and immediately the air felt cleaner in my lungs. I sighed in relief and slowed down a bit. Surely, creepy dude would clear off now. Another glimpse backward, and I stiffened — he was still onto me and catching up. He called out something else, something crude that sent shivers down my spine, and I almost tripped over my own feet trying to get away.

To my right, a handsome Victorian mansion hid behind a line of prospering cypresses, a BMW waiting quietly on the gravel leading to the front door. Before I could think about it, I was walking up the driveway and, hoping to God someone nice lived there, rang the bell.

Immediately, hurried footsteps sounded from the inside, and I was greeted by an older woman, her face blotchy, and her hair a frizzy chaos. She had kind eyes, like the bark of an oak tree. "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry to bother you," I said, my cheeks heating up. Who's to say someone who lived in a house like this one would trust me, with my denim cut-offs and messy ponytail? "I'm being followed by some low-life, and I was hoping to get rid of him this way."

The woman peered behind me, craning her neck, then gestured for me to enter the house. "Come in, hon," she said. "Watch your step. They should lock men like that away forever, they should."

I breathed out deeply, not believing my luck. The lady seemed trustworthy enough, with a motherly vibe, and everything was better than being out there getting verbally harassed.

A modest chandelier lit up the dark hallway, showing off mahogany paneled walls and hardwood floors. My jaw slacked as I took in the floor-length gilded mirror and antique closet, gawking at the polished banister of a beautiful staircase. Even though the area was cluttered with an array of small shoes and pink backpacks, it exuded grandeur, and I had never seen anything like it.

"Miss Schneider!" a snippy voice called suddenly.

Both of us startled, and the woman sighed, giving me an apologetic smile. "Boss needs me," she said. "I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

And, just like that, I was alone, staring up at the painting of a stern man who'd obviously bit the dust centuries ago. I wrapped my arms around myself. Look what my life had come to. Fleeing from dickheads into the house of a complete stranger, not really anyone left to call for help, not even caring what would happen next.

Just as I was on the verge of letting out a sniffle, I felt someone watching me.

From behind one of the many robust doors, a young child stood staring up at me, a plastic princess tiara perched on her head. The girl smiled sweetly, hiding half of her face, yet she kept her eyes trained on me.

I wiped at my cheeks, even though they'd still been dry. "Oh, hi," I said, hoping my voice sounded unaffected. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm just visiting. Name is Jessie. What's yours?"

The little one shuffled closer, now fully visible. She seemed to be about three, with adorable golden brown lively curls and long lashes, wearing a sparkly blue Elsa dress. She was fidgeting in place, obviously trying to decide what to do with the sudden appearance of this stranger.

"What a pretty dress you're wearing. Wish I had one like that. Though I'm not much of a Frozen person myself."

Again, she didn't respond, although she did stop moving around, cocking her head as if listening more closely.

"Olaf is really funny, though."

Finally, the girl giggled, nodding her head. "Yes. When he sneezed, Sven ate his nose!" 

I laughed too. I remembered that scene. "Ouch. Poor Olaf."

"That's okay. He got it back." She took another step into the hallway, clutching her skirts. "Do you want to see my Barbies?"

  There were a million reasons I should say no. I was a stranger — the parents could get livid — in a few minutes, I would have to leave, and I couldn't survive getting attached to another kid that wasn't mine. Only, this was the first time in months I didn't feel like I was trapped on the bottom of a dried-up well, and the girl's smile was just too precious.

Before I could convince my brain this was a bad idea, I was sitting in the living room, fancy with flowery wallpaper and a sleek black grand piano, on a soft vintage rug, surrounded by a clan of white anorexic dolls with disfigured feet. Most of them were naked, and the girl was handing me plastic brushes and showing me how to comb their hair, all the while recounting all of their names, and, funnily, their favorite sweets. A brown-haired one named Anna loved apple pie, but judging by the size of her waist, I figured the doll had to be throwing up after every slice she'd devoured.

"You know, I never really liked apple pie," I said, as I pulled a skimpy dress over one of the blonde Barbies, who had gotten a horrible haircut sometime earlier in her life. "It gets so mushy. And the apples just taste like sugary slush."

The little girl giggled loudly, pulling up her shoulders and covering her mouth with her hands. "What's mushy?"

I paused for a moment, the Barbie dangling from my hand. "It's like... slushy. Pulpy. Like melted snow. Or mashed potatoes."

"I like mashed potatoes."

"Well, then you'd like apple pie too."

She nodded earnestly. "Yes. Mommy said we can make one for my birthday."

"What's your mommy's name?"

"Mmm." She looked at the ceiling. "Lizabeth."

"Elizabeth. And do you have another daddy or mommy?"

A firm shake of the head. "No."

I dropped the doll. This had obviously been a mistake. Why did I keep reminding myself of the life I could've had, the life I'd so desperately wanted to live? What was I even still doing here, playing alongside a strange child, wasting time? I should be out there, roaming the streets of Norfolk, looking for a job and a place to stay that wasn't my brother's couch. Lennox had been right about that. I was a coward.

"Well, you certainly took your time," someone else suddenly said.

I startled and looked up. Next to the grand piano, a woman in a navy pantsuit was straightening the cuffs of her shirt, her dark brows furrowed in a razor-sharp frown, her lips a thin line. Her long dark honey-brown hair, highlighted with streaks of gold, fell over her shoulder in shiny careless waves, and she shoved it back like she was longing to rip it out, her earrings dangling furiously. She stepped closer, on her chic black pumps, and a heavy cloud of perfume drifted towards me, almost making me gasp. "Look, I'll need to have a word with you when I get back," she continued, her voice as commanding as when she'd called for the older woman earlier. "But for now, Miss Schneider will stay to keep an eye on things until I return. You can ask her anything. I trust you're better at your job than at arriving on time, or I'll make sure the agency will put you on probation."

Even though I hadn't done anything wrong, I blushed. Whoever this woman thought I was would really be in for it if they ever made it here. "Err," I said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I think you're mistaking me for someone else."

She stopped fussing over her jacket, her frown deepening even more. "You're not Lyla from the nanny agency?"

Maybe I should pretend to be. She seemed on edge, her eyes as dark as potting soil, sparking with annoyance.

"No, mommy," the girl spoke up, "this is Jessie. We're getting the Barbies ready for Elsa's birthday."

"Jessie," repeated the woman, putting her hands on her hips, cocking her head ever so slightly. "And can Jessie explain who the hell she is and why she's in the living room playing with my daughter if she's not a paid babysitter?"

"Yes, ma'am, Jessie can," I blurted out, which made her lips twitch, and not with laughter. Oops. I scratched my hair, trying not to crumble under her deadly stare, and got up from the carpet. "I mean... The older woman let me in. I was being harassed on the street, and I came here to hide. Your daughter invited me to Elsa's birthday."

The girl nodded earnestly, a barbie in each fist.

"It was such an honor, I couldn't say no," I added, attempting a disarming grin, which vanished immediately at seeing the look on the woman's face.

She'd just opened her mouth, lifting her hand to point at the door, when miss Schneider came hurrying in, a ringing smartphone in her hand. "The nanny agency, Elizabeth," she said, handing it over.

Elizabeth put up her finger, signing for me to wait, and accepted the call, running her free hand through her hair. "Elizabeth Canfield. Your nanny was supposed to be here forty minutes ago. I'm sorry? The bus was delayed? How far away does she live?" She clenched her jaw, her voice thundering louder with each sentence. "What kind of service is this? Well, can't you send someone else?"

She was scary. Poor person on the other end of the line — it wasn't like it was their fault. These things happened, though it looked like they usually didn't happen to this Elizabeth Canfield in her handsome pantsuit, with her mansion and who I now supposed was the housekeeper.

Her daughter looked up at her in worry, biting on her bottom lip, and I smiled to reassure her.

"Alright, you can tell your boss this is unacceptable and that I require to speak with him tomorrow. Alright. Have a good day."

She was, in fact, not wishing the receptionist a good day, but, judging by the tone of her voice, more the kind of day that made someone slip on dog poop and tumble headfirst into a pile of garbage bags, and I was starting to worry this house might be more dangerous than the creep on the street.

When she lowered her phone, she sighed deeply, shutting her eyes tightly like she had a migraine coming on.

"Elizabeth, if you need me to—" miss Schneider started to say, but she interrupted her.

"No," she said, rather harshly if you asked me. "Absolutely not. I won't have it. I suppose I'll just have to cancel."

"I can do it. I could use the money."

I'd said it before I'd even thought about it. So yes, I needed money, and I had nothing to do today, but was I really so desperate I was willing to throw myself in front of this snappy lioness?

Her lips narrowed as she sized me up, from my denim cut-offs to my simple black shirt to my hair. In comparison to her, I must've looked like I'd walked fresh off the trailer park.

"You mean you want to stay and play with me?" the little girl piped up, her eyes shining. "Oh, please, mommy, say yes. Pretty please."

Elizabeth froze. She stared at her child like she'd only just appeared out of thin air, then opened her mouth and closed it again. She turned to me, shoulders squared. "What's your full name?"

"Jessie Kawecki," I said quickly, feeling like I was back in middle school.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

That was the last question I'd expected, and, taken aback, I answered honestly: "I threw my sister's diary in the bathtub after she told Mimi I was the one who'd sat on her glasses." After a second of stunned silence from both Elizabeth and miss Schneider, I added: "I was six. But she still hates me for it." Which was why I was sleeping on my brother's couch, and not hers, which was far bigger and more comfortable.

It worked, though. Elizabeth produced a weary sound, checked the time on her phone, and shook her head: "Fine. But miss Schneider will be watching you the whole time, you hear me?"

Her glaring at me was more than enough to make sure I'd do my utmost best, and really, how hard could it be watching this adorable cutie? "Understood."

Elizabeth turned to miss Schneider and said, in a far softer tone: "I'm sorry. Would you go with her to pick up Manon and Ari?"

"Wait. You have more than one kid?"

She frowned again. Sorry, but she could hardly be any older than me, thirty at most — did she have twins? "Yes. I have three. Will that be a problem?"

"No, ma'am," I said, though I was starting to regret this.

"Stop calling me 'ma'am'. My phone number is on the fridge. I'll be back in four hours tops. Text me your phone number and address so I'll know where to reach you if needed." She went to her knees, for the first time cracking a real smile, and I couldn't help noticing that beneath all that coldness, she was actually beautiful. "I'll see you tonight, Camille. I hope you'll have a great time at err— the birthday of your doll."

"Elsa," I said.

She ignored me. Camille nodded earnestly, then threw her arms around her mother, who, to my relief, hugged her tight. An ice queen she might be, it seemed like she loved her kids well enough.

Elizabeth got up and opened her mouth to say something to miss Schneider, who smiled warmly and spoke first: "It's alright. You go now. We'll be fine, I promise."

One last warning look at me, and she picked up her purse, marching from the room on her black heels with expert steadiness.

"Bye, mommy!" Camille called, but the front door had already closed with a thud.