Page 15 of Third Time Lucky

or

Alexa? Remind me to look up restraining orders.

Any one of them would be appropriate for this situation, considering adult males rarely quote animated musicals to each other in the dark.

No wonder I’m alone.

“Was I too loud?” he asks into the uncomfortable silence. “I promised we’d go to the park for the sing-along, but as you no doubt heard, the plan changed. She said I should come out here to play the one song I knew since—” he waves his hand toward the water by way of explanation.

“It makes perfect sense to me. How old is she?”

“Five.”

“That’s a good year. It’s two and six you really need to watch out for.” I’m joking, but I’m not lying. I have the scars to prove it.

“I missed two. But thanks for the heads up on six.” He squints at me thoughtfully, gaze drifting toward my apartment. “You’ve got kids?”

“Hundreds.” I do some mental math. “At this exact moment, three hundred and forty-five. Wait. Forty-six. Billy showed up three weeks ago.”

His lips quirk. “Either you have amazing stamina and a harem in every town, or you’re pulling my leg.”

I do have amazing stamina and I’d rather stroke his leg than pull it, but I wisely keep that to myself.

“It’s what I do for a living. Nannies not harems,” I clarify at his questioning glance. “I wrangle nannies. And they are currently responsible for the care and well-being of three hundred and forty-six children of varying ages and emotional needs. I sometimes forget that I don’t have any of my own.”

I never forget. I don’t forget the names, birthdays, or special requirements of our client’s children either.

Stress? Who me?

I didn’t used to be this OCD about it. I’ve always cared. I’ve always felt responsible. But this last year it’s become more of an issue. Matilda and Tani were the only people who’d noticed I was working too hard and not eating or sleeping as well. They’re the ones who forced me to get that checkup.

It’s why I finally agreed to pull back a bit. I couldn’t take care of anyone if I didn’t take care of myself first.

Now I’m quoting my doctor.

“A nanny wrangler?” My neighbor drags me from my thoughts with a sexy furrow between his brows that tells me he’s trying to picture it as he catalogues my wrinkled pants and sweatshirt ensemble. I know I’m a mess. My hair is a curly mop, my tongue is orange and I’m assuming I have pasta sauce on my chin and/or some section of my clothing. I refuse to check while he’s watching me.

I don’t look like a nanny or a wrangler at the moment. I doubt I look employed.

Nannythrows everyone. The word brings to mind bitter old women with no children of their own or, on the other end of that horseshoe, the nubile homewrecker who’ll lead Daddy astray. Both the gothic and mid-life crisis stereotypes make my job harder than it has to be, since even in a suit I don’t conform to norms.

He gets points for not laughing. Most men think I’m joking when they find out what I do, but he’s actually trying to take it in.

I check to see if smoke is coming out of his ears, only to freeze at what his gaze has honed in on. The railing, the dark, even my sweatshirt isn’t offering enough protection to hide the noticeable bulge I’m sporting in his vicinity.

Is he staring at my dick?

All my brothers have horror stories of classroom boners that got everyone’s attention. They thought it was a laugh, but at the time I couldn’t think of a more terrifying situation. Especially if it had happened in my AP science class, because Mr. Nigel was sex—

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra bottle of that, would you?”

I nearly drop the one in my hand when he follows the question with a sensual lick of his lips. “Oh, a soda. Right. Sure.”

He’s thirsty.

For a drink, lust monkey. Keep it in your pants.

Because he was looking at the bottle near my dick. Not my actual… Fuck, am I relieved or insulted?

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