Page 19 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
She’s just so perfect. I don’t even know her name, and something in me is dying to, but she shakes her head and quirks a grin—soft and secret.
Then, she looks out toward the orchestra warming up on the stage. And she sighs contentedly, and that sound?
It unlocks something deep inside of me.
“How about we just keep it casual? No names, yet. No reality. Let’s just be.”
I don’t like it. It makes this seem so tentative, impermanent.
But yeah, I get it.
I do.
It’s that first date bubble feeling.
She doesn’t want us to burst it with real-world details.
Still, I can’t help the little sting of disappointment that creeps in.
I want to know her name.
Want to memorize it.
Want to say it low and reverent in the dark when she’s mine.
Fuck, that’s fast for me. But it’s the truth.
She makes me feel—that’s just it. I feel for the first time in a long time.
And I want her with an intensity I didn’t see coming.
Still, I nod, like this doesn’t already feel like the most important moment of my year.
We settle in, snacks balanced between us—iced teas, a warm paper pouch of sugar-dusted churros, and a pretzel the size of a dinner plate.
The food smells good, but she smells better.
Bright like citrus.
Warm like honey.
Whatever it is, I like it.
I wanna lick the pulse I see dancing at the base of her neck.
See if she tastes as good as she smells.
We talk.
Not deep stuff, just enough to open the door.
New Jersey summers.
Jersey diners versus NYC bagels.
Boardwalk fries and those ridiculous mini golf places with the animatronic pirates that always break halfway through July.
She’s a Jersey Girl—born and raised—and it does something weird to my chest.
