Page 8 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

Can I touch his hand? Really? Is that allowed?

Oh my God! Get a grip, Jolene!

Somehow, I remember to show the bare minimum of human behavior and reach my hand out toward his. Certainly I know how to do this. Twenty-two years of social training must mean I have muscle memory, at least.

To my delight, I watch my own hand float in midair as it glides in slow motion toward his, folding into it, wrapping around it, and bouncing once in a totally not-weird way.

“Jolene Adair,” I answer, shocked to find out I have a regular-sounding voice.

“Won’t you come in?”

I smile and nod, happy that my body remembers how to act like a normal person, even if my brain is gibbering like a monkey right now. Who is this angel? How am I here? It seems like a dream.

Definitely a serial murderer, right? I mean, definitely.

“Right this way; I hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, gesturing down the hall with a motion of his hand.

I can’t help but notice the thick muscles just under his skin, dancing over each other like sailors’ ropes being rearranged on the deck of some kind of magnificent ship.

“What a lovely home,” I smile politely as he guides me deeper into the home, to the torture room or surgical chamber or whatever it is that he has in mind.

And yet, would it be such a bad way to go? Murdered by a handsome stranger?

Okay. Fine. Let’s do this.

“Thank you,” he answers as he reaches a serious-looking door at the end of the hall and depresses the handle. “We designed it for looks and function too. I will show you around later, if you like.”

I dare myself to glance up at him as the door opens and I drift through it. His eyes are really bright. Like leafy green, but new leaves. Baby leaves, bursting with spring.

“That sounds wonde—”

My voice cuts off hoarsely.

A second man by the window stand up straight and smiles, striding forward with his hand out.

“Boone Haddock,” he smiles brilliantly.

Helplessly, I shake his hand, trying to reorient myself to this new information.

A third man rises from a chair and approaches me as well. His hair flicks out lightly behind him as he moves, waving in the air like a supermodel’s mane. His hand is practically hot as it folds around mine.

I feel a little woozy.

“Harrison Cooper,” he grins.

Harrison can tell I’m about to faint, I know it. I feel his hand underneath my elbow as he guides me to an oversized chair. The other one—Boone?—sets a frosty bottle of water on the small table next me.

“Sure is hot out,” Ambrose adds with a knowing smirk.

Woozy and lightheaded, I try to reorient myself to the task at hand. What am I doing here again?

“I’m here to interview for the nanny position…” I hear myself say weakly.

“Yes, we got you,” Ambrose says in a more gentle voice as he and the other two men dragged chairs and position them in front of me. They sit politely, leaning forward in matching polo shirts that I realize all have the same logos stitched just below their left shoulders.

The water is cool, and I can feel it sparkling down my throat as I take another sip. Okay. All right.

“The nanny…” I begin.

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