Page 36 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
No nothing.
I refresh my inbox for the billionth time, staring at the clock like it is responsible for all manner of unmentionable things.
“Coffee?” Kyle asks from behind, startling me so bad I shriek and hurl my phone across the kitchen.
“Dammit, Kyle! You scared the actual shit out of me!” I whine, clutching my heart like I’m eighty, and his voice gave me arrhythmia.
He blinks, walks over calmly, and picks up my phone like I didn’t just go full Final Girl in a supernatural horror movie.
“Sorry, sis,” he deadpans, handing it back. “But uh, actually, maybe less caffeine today?”
He eyes the trembling to-go cup in my hand like it might combust.
It might.
My whole nervous system is currently vibrating at a frequency only bats and maybe wolves can hear.
Ping.
My phone buzzes.
A text message emerges.
Dane Alistair/Nanny Job Ad
834 Main St. Penthouse.
The address. It finally comes through.
I stare at it.
And stare.
And then I stare some more.
Because something deep in my soul—and possibly in my uterus—just pinged like a mating beacon from another dimension.
Kyle sips his coffee like nothing is wrong.
Meanwhile, I’m in a full spiritual crisis.
Because, that address?
That newish brick building with ivy climbing the front and the fancy-ass buzzer system?
That’s his place.
Well, his building, at any rate.
Mystery man.
D.
The one with the golden eyes, thunder in his voice, and sex that rearranged my spine and possibly rewired my brain.
My stomach swoops.
What are the odds?
