The Nanny

by Lana Ferguson

I mean, good tits should really earn their keep. I think Margaret Thatcher said that once.

I realize this thought process makes little sense, but all I know is I am five seven with tits worth paying for, an ass built on squats and an emotional connection with bread, and this man makes me feel tiny.

His eyes are a clash of one brown and one green, the colors not bright but subtle, like warm tea and seawater that are hard to look away from.

“It could all be some elaborate scheme to lure you to his house so he can lock you in his basement.” “He lives in a town house,” I tell her. “I don’t even think they have basements.”

Sounds like they’ve had some bad luck in the nanny department lately.” “They’re probably all in the basement.”

“I’m too old for princesses,” she says stoically. “Well, when we’re done we can visit the retirement home.”

“Have I told you yet about my friend’s basement theory?” He grimaces. “Do I want to know?” “That depends. Where do you stand on kidnapping jokes?” “I think this is a good time to make it clear that I don’t actually have a basement.” “My friend would say that’s what you want me to think,” I answer grimly.

“Did I miss anything interesting this week?” “Well, I’ve been introducing Sophie to my underground gambling ring, but she hasn’t impressed me yet.”

“First of all, you assume any fault to be had is with the man. You have good tits and a better brain, and that means you are automatically hands above the rest.”

It’s not every day that you find love because of a booby cam.