Page 55 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
Yeah, I’m not moving.
Not now, not ever.
Well, maybe a little just to get cozy.
Maybe I should say something.
Like, hey, do you mind if I crush your thighs with all this ass?
But he hasn’t so much as flinched.
In fact, he seems pleased.
Like really pleased.
Like I-need-to-adjust-myself-before-I-embarrass-us-both pleased.
I bite my lip.
His golden gaze drops to my mouth.
“Just so we’re clear, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and sin, “if you keep wiggling like that, I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be having a serious conversation.”
I blink up at him.
Did he just say that, or am I hallucinating?
But Dane’s still staring at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
Like there never was a floating head.
Like this—we—is the most important thing happening in the world.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern etched into his gorgeous face. “Need something? Water?”
I nod, mostly because my brain is mush and my mouth is staging a protest.
“Got anything stronger?” I croak.
His grin is devastating. “Yeah. Hang on.”
He shifts me—and oh my God, I actually whimper when he lifts me like I weigh nothing and deposits me gently onto a buttery soft leather sofa.
For one half-second, I consider throwing myself back at him like a koala.
Instead, I cross my legs, adjust my tank top, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person who didn’t just faint from magical exposure and land on the world’s hottest single dad.
“Ever try Summer Bite?” he asks, already moving to a sleek bar cart. “It’s from a distillery in South Jersey. One of my favorite clients owns it. Mason Lane. Good guy. Family operation. They make one hell of a good whiskey.”
He drops a perfectly round ice sphere into a heavy glass, pours two fingers of amber liquor, and brings it over.
“Here.”
I take a sip.
It’s smoky, a little sweet, with a bite that licks fire down my throat and settles in my chest like courage.
I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Thanks.”
