Page 32 of Protecting My Nanny

"Hey, bud. Happy Friday!"

I give Shane a stern look. "That was too close," I whisper, just as Jaime gets closer.

"Can I see them?" Jaime asks.

"Sure, I was just giving them to Nicole," Shane says.

I watch curiously, still unsure what they're so excited about. Shane pulls the tickets from his pocket and lets Jaime examine them before handing them to me. I glance at them.

The tickets are for a monster truck show at the stadium tomorrow afternoon.

"You don't remember, do you?" Shane asks, noticing the confusion on my face.

I force a smile. "No," I admit nervously.

"It's going to be the best, Nicole! You sure you can't come, Uncle Shane?" Jaime asks.

"Nah, bud, got another late one tomorrow. But you and Nicole can take some good videos for me, right?" Shane replies.

It must have slipped my mind. With everything happening—the charity event, the threatening text, this new relationship with Shane—the show got lost somewhere in the mix.

"I've got to go, guys. See you tonight," Shane says with a wink. He turns to Jaime. "Get ready for monster trucks," he says in a deep, playful voice, ruffling Jaime's hair. Shane leaves the kitchen and heads out the door, and I take Jaime upstairs to get him dressed for school.

The restaurant is Japanese—exclusive and members-only, Shane assured me in his text earlier. I'm to meet him directly at our private booth.

"No chance of anyone seeing us arrive together," his text had promised. I can't help but smile at the careful planning he's put into this.

When I enter the restaurant's lounge, the ambiance immediately strikes me—dim lighting with elegant lanterns hanging overhead and soft traditional music playing in the background. There's a single hostess behind a sleek black podium. She looks up as I approach, her face professional but warm.

"Good evening. May I have your reservation number?" she asks.

I give it to her, and she types it into her computer. After a moment, she looks up with a slight nod. "Right this way," she says, her voice soft and polite.

She leads me through a discreet door into a narrow hallway lined with other doors, each marked with a number. It feels more like an upscale speakeasy than a restaurant. I hear the muffledsounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and soft conversations coming from behind the closed doors, creating a sense of hidden revelry. The ambiance is intimate, secretive, almost sensual.

We stop at door number seven, and she knocks lightly before opening it. Inside, Shane stands waiting with a wide smile that instantly puts me at ease.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. The room is spacious but intimate, a private booth with a curved leather seat that wraps around the walls and a polished wooden table in the center. Embedded in the middle of the table is a large grill where a soft fire flickers beneath a metal grate.

Once I'm inside, the hostess gives me a polite smile and quietly closes the door, leaving us alone in our secluded sanctuary. Shane steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine, and kisses me gently, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Then he takes my hand and guides me to the table, where we settle in side by side.

There's a sleek tablet on the table displaying the menu. He picks it up and hands it to me. "Order whatever you like."

I scroll through the selections—an array of alcoholic drinks, traditional Japanese appetizers, and plates of raw meats elegantly arranged like works of art.

"Is this one of those places where we cook it ourselves?" I ask, glancing up at him.

"Yeah, is that okay?" Shane replies. "I remember when we first… you know. You mentioned you'd never been, so I wanted to try it with you."

I can't help but smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. "You're so sweet," I say softly, leaning in to kiss him again.

The meal is an experience in itself. We drink sake and enjoy the fun of grilling our own meats over the open flame. The scent of searing beef and garlic fills the room, and the cozy atmosphere makes everything feel more intimate. By the end of the evening, I've fallen in love with the restaurant and, in a way, with Shane all over again. This private, hidden space makes me feel safe, wrapped up in the warmth of his presence, if only for a moment.

When the meal is done, we're granted special permission to leave through a back entrance of the restaurant. Our car awaits, but as we step outside, paranoia begins to creep back in. The dark alley behind the restaurant feels too quiet and too exposed. I subtly scan the area, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

During the ride home, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I catch a glimpse of a black SUV in the side mirror, and my heart races. It seems to follow us from the restaurant, lingering behind. I try to focus on Shane, who is chatting casually about the evening, but my mind is racing. Am I just being paranoid? Maybe I've had too much to drink, and I'm imagining things.

By the time we reach home, the SUV is long gone—or maybe it was never there. I exhale, feeling my anxiety melt away as we step inside. The safety of the house, the warmth of Shane's handin mine, is enough to push the fear to the back of my mind, at least for now.

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