The Grumpy Doctor’s Nanny

Moving In

The hot spray of the shower rolled over my skin like a promise I wasn’t sure I believed in yet. I was shocked the hot water was till on I haven't paid my bill and thought they would have cut the hot water by now.Steam curled around me, clinging to the cracked mirror above the sink, as I leaned against the cold tile wall and tried to breathe. I was about to go scrub toilets.

At least, that had been the plan.

I stepped out, wrapping my towel around me and wiping the fog from the mirror. My reflection stared back—wet blond hair plastered to my face, tired eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. It was Monday. Another week, another shot at survival.

I was mentally rehearsing what I’d say to the bar manager when my phone buzzed on the counter. I grabbed it quickly, expecting Sally.

Unknown number.

My stomach clenched.

I hesitated. Then answered.

“Hello?”

“Good morning. Is this Miss Hart?”

“Yes,” I said, cautiously.

“This is Beth, the head housekeeper of the Westbrook estate. Mr. Westbrook’s home. I’m calling to ask if you’re ready to start today?”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard her. My towel nearly slipped to the floor.

“I—excuse me?”

“Your employment begins today,” she said matter-of-factly. “We assumed you would be packed. Will you be arriving shortly?”

It took everything in me not to scream into the phone. I swallowed hard.

“Yes,” I choked out. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much. I’ll be there right away.”

“Very good,” she said, then hung up.

I stared at the phone.

Then screamed.

“I GOT THE JOB!” I shrieked, spinning in a circle before dashing barefoot through the room, dripping water everywhere.

I fumbled with my phone, dialing Sally’s number so fast I nearly dropped it.

She picked up immediately. “Hey—what’s wrong? Did the toilet job get worse?”

“I GOT THE NANNY JOB!”

“What?” she gasped.

“I don’t know how or why, but they called me back! I start today!”

“Oh my God, Callie! I knew it! That man might be a grumpy jerk, but someone in that house has taste!”

“I need to pack—clothes, shoes—I don’t even have luggage,” I rambled.

Sally laughed. “You’ll make it work. Go! Call me when you get there!”

After we hung up, I threw on the cleanest outfit I could find—black jeans, a decent top, and the only blazer I hadn’t sold. I shoved everything I owned into two tote bags. It wasn’t much—two pairs of shoes, five outfits, underwear, a secondhand flat iron, and a notebook I scribbled ideas in when I couldn’t sleep. My life fit into less than a suitcase.

Two hours later, a cab pulled up to the Westbrook estate.

Even knowing what to expect, my breath caught as the massive iron gates creaked open and the mansion came into view—white-stone walls, tall columns, glass that sparkled like diamonds under the sun. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a palace. A silent fortress of secrets and power.

Beth, the housekeeper, greeted me at the door, her posture impossibly straight, her expression unreadable.

“Miss Hart,” she said with a respectful nod. “Welcome back. Follow me.”

Inside, the mansion was just as grand as I remembered—marble floors, sweeping staircases, art that probably cost more than my entire life. She led me down a hallway and handed me a thick file.

“This is everything you need to know about Miss Lila Westbrook,” she said.

I opened it and blinked.

There was a photo of her—blonde curls, serious blue eyes, a little wary. Page after page followed: her age (five), birthday (November 23rd), blood type (A positive), height, weight, eye color, shoe size, favorite foods, hated vegetables, favorite bedtime stories, even a record of her last cold.

“She has a peanut allergy,” Beth said. “And a slight lactose intolerance. Avoid milk in the mornings. Almond milk works fine.”

“Right,” I murmured. “This is… detailed.”

“We don’t take chances with Miss Lila.”

“She’s at home?”

“No, it’s Monday,” Beth replied, raising an eyebrow. “She’s at kindergarten.”

Oh. Right.

Callie. Maybe always keep in mind what day it is next time.

“Let me show you your room.”

We walked through the back of the house to a wing I hadn’t seen before. Beth opened a tall white door and I nearly gasped.

The room was enormous—high ceilings, cream-colored walls with pale gold accents, a massive bed with a carved wooden frame, and a walk-in closet I could probably live in. The bed was already made with what looked like silk sheets and a soft quilt. There was a large writing desk, a velvet lounge chair by the window, and a wall of bookshelves.

The best part?

The view.

Outside, I could see the estate’s sprawling gardens, fountains, and a stone pathway leading into the trees.

Beth opened the bathroom door, and my jaw dropped again.

Marble counters. A freestanding tub. Gold fixtures. Rainfall shower. The place looked like a high-end hotel spa.

“You’ll be staying here full time,” Beth said. “Only you and I live in the main house besides the family.”

I turned slowly, still trying to absorb everything. “This is… beautiful.”

Beth nodded. “We value professionalism, privacy, and excellence. Mr. Westbrook expects nothing less.”

I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or completely out of my depth.

“I’ll give you a tour of the mansion and the grounds.”

As we walked, I tried to keep up, but my legs were already sore. The mansion had fifteen bedrooms, multiple kitchens, a home cinema that could seat fifty people, a library big enough to be a public facility, a ballroom, a gym, a spa, and a private bar that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel.

I spotted a photo on a side table as we passed—a beautiful woman with chestnut hair and green eyes, holding a baby.

I paused. “Is that… Mr. Westbrook’s wife?”

Beth’s eyes softened, just for a moment.

“Yes. Her name was Madeline. She passed away five years ago in a car accident. Mr. Westbrook and Miss Lila were both in the car. Only they survived.”

My heart dropped.

“That’s awful,” I whispered.

“Yeah poor Madam,” she said simply, then kept walking.

We exited the back door and climbed into a golf cart. I gripped the sides as we zoomed across the estate—past a rose garden, a maze hedge, and finally toward the stables. Horses poked their heads out of the stalls, tails swishing lazily.

Beyond the stables were two separate four-bedroom houses—neat, elegant, and clearly well-kept.

“Some of the staff live here,” Martha explained.

“The gardeners, stablehands, and part-time chefs. Only trusted long-term employees stay in the main house.”

Meaning her. And now… me.

I tried not to let that pressure sink in.

As we rode back, I caught glimpses of more hidden beauty—small stone fountains, a greenhouse, even what looked like a tiny chapel tucked between two hills.

They were really rich.

When we finally pulled back to the main house, I thanked her profusely.

“Unpack,” she said. “Mr. Westbrook and the Madam will return around six. Miss Lila will be home by three-thirty. Until then, rest.”

Once she left me alone, I collapsed on the bed.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to the ceiling. “I’m going to sleep on Egyptian cotton and eat fancy cheese for breakfast.”

Then I squealed.

Like a child.

I kicked off my shoes and jumped onto the bed, bouncing like a giddy maniac. The mattress was like a cloud. The pillows were plush. Even the air smelled expensive.

After months of scraping by, of sleeping in a room that smelled like mildew, of choosing between dinner and rent—this felt like a dream.

And it wasn’t just about the luxury. It was the chance. The opportunity to start over, to be part of something stable. To finally make enough money to breathe again.

I had no idea how long this job would last. Maybe Damian Westbrook would come home and fire me for smiling the wrong way.

But for now?

I was the nanny of Lila Westbrook.

And I was going to give this everything I had.