Page 16 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
But before I can fall down the rabbit hole that is my own anxiety about dating, he replies.
DA123: There’s a summer concert series in the park a few blocks from me. Orchestra night. It’s free?
I bite my lip.
Am I really doing this?
I glance down at myself.
Still in the leggings.
Still in the oversized shirt that says I Nap With Cats even though I don’t own a cat.
Nope. I do not.
Okay. If I’m doing this, I’m doing this.
I hit reply before I chicken out: Sounds good. Send the address and I’ll meet you there!
DA123: See you soon. (Map attached.)
“Oh my God, I am doing this!” I gasp.
I abandon the brownie on the coffee table, fling open my makeshift closet—aka the DVD shelf in my brother’s living room—and let out an unhinged little squeal like a woman on the verge of a very hot, very possibly magical date.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in a wrap dress that flutters around my knees and hugs my curves just right.
The color’s a soft coral that makes my skin glow and my boobs look amazing.
A little mascara, a swipe of gloss, and suddenly I remember what it feels like to feel excited.
There’s music in the air as I reach the park, drifting across the lawn from the stage at the center—rich, soaring classical arias backed by a full orchestra.
It’s magic. Actual magic.
The sun’s setting. The lights are soft. People are stretched out on picnic blankets and lawn chairs.
There’s even a vendor selling pretzels and churros.
And that’s when I see him—don’t ask me how I know, I just know. I mean, yeah, I saw his profile pic, but it was blurry and small.
In person, he isn’t blurry or small at all.
He’s standing off to the side in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, looking like he stepped out of a Calvin Klein catalog for Single Dads Who Might Secretly Be Superheroes.
The minute I spot him, everything tilts. Not in a dizzy, need-to-sit-down kind of way—more like the universe did a double-take and whispered, “Oh, it’s you.”
He’s tall. Like, really tall.
Broad shoulders straining his shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal powerful forearms that look like they’ve actually lifted more than a laptop.
His hair’s this warm, medium brown. All windswept like he just walked out of a cologne ad, and when he smiles?
Yeah. I forget my own name for a second.
“Hi,” I manage, ridiculously proud that I don’t squeak.
“TW?” he asks, his voice so deep it practically reverberates through my spine.
