Page 38 of The Nanny and the Nerd
He cleared his throat, willing himself to keep his gaze locked on the road. “In the story—what happened between the characters after the hero spoke that line?”
It only took a second for his resolve to crumble. From the corner of his eye, he caught her shoulders droop a fraction.
“I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Good old-fashioned writer’s block,” she answered, making light of it. But that thread of apprehension was still there.
“Perhaps a change of scenery will help,” he replied, turning into his neighborhood.
Penelope leaned forward. “You live in Crystal Hills?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t drive this way if I didn’t,” he answered.
She chuckled. “I guess I should have expected it.”
“Do you have something against the Crystal Hills neighborhood and scenic views?” he questioned. From sports figures to philanthropists to business elites, the Who’s Who of Denver lived here. That’s what the realtor had said when she’d showed him the property. He hadn’t given the views much thought and couldn’t give two shits about who lived in the area. He needed a house, and price wasn’t a limiting factor for him.
Penelope relaxed into the seat. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. The homes here are beautiful. I always loved it as a kid when we’d drive by. I’d press my forehead against the glass and think up stories about the fancy people who lived on top of the hill.”
“Where did you grow up?” he asked, again, not his usual move. He wasn’t one for idle conversation. But nothing was idle about Penelope Fennimore.
“Denver—in the Baxter Park neighborhood,” she answered.
“That’s a nice area.” His mother’s home—where he’d lived with the Gales—wasn’t far from there in the Washington Park neighborhood. From the way she lost her shit over the Lamborghini, he’d figured she’d grown up in a tougher environment.
“I don’t want you to think I had it rough as a kid. My parents, well, my mom owns a small accounting firm. I never went without. But…”
“What is it?” he asked, fascinated with every detail.
“I’m the black sheep of the family. My older sisters are quite successful. I haven’t measured up to them.”
He shook his head. That couldn’t be true. “Perhaps you’re using the wrong metric to gauge your success. You aren’t your sisters. You’re…”
Radiant?
Beguiling?
Nearly irresistible?
No! He’d already dipped his toe intoCreepervilleby crashing her evening.
“You’re you,” he replied instead.
He felt her eyes on him. “I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
Silence hung in the air, scented with…
“That’s it!” he exclaimed, slapping the steering wheel.
“What?” Penelope shrieked, looking from side to side. “Is there something in the road?”
“No, orange blossoms,” he answered, now realizing how insane he must sound.
“Why would there be orange blossoms in the middle of the road?” she asked, continuing to scan the darkened street.
“It’s your perfume. It’s got to be orange blossoms. I’ve been trying to figure it out.” That had to be why he couldn’t focus on anything else today. His brain had been preoccupied with her scent. But that little voice scratching in the corners of his mind knew it was a hell of a lot more than her perfume.
