Page 12 of The Nanny and the Hothead
LIBBY LAMB: OK, now that we’ve established that we’re not resorting to violence tonight, I gotta go! I have three yoga classes to teach. I’m sorry I can’t meet you for the speed date thing, Char.
HARPER PRESLEY: Why are you doing that, Charlotte????
Charlotte stared at the screen. The answer? Because for as long as she could remember, she’d longed to have a man wrap his arms around her and tell her that she held the key to his heart.
Cheesy?
Yes.
Did she care?
No way! Pile on the love cheese—the more, the better.
She’d longed for that sweet security. The bliss she’d anticipated would hit her like a Mack truck the minute she locked eyes with Mr. Cheesy Forever. She was about to float away imagining meeting Mr. Right when thoughts of her parents bubbled to the surface. An unwelcome, sickening sensation passed over her. But she couldn’t go down that road. Not now! Tonight was not the night for that.
CHARLOTTE AMES: I’m going for the margaritas, of course.
She stared at the screen. Another half-truth. How many more would she tell today?
PENNY FENNIMORE: Be careful! And only have one. I hear the margs at that place pack a real
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Charlotte gasped, dropping her phone before reading Penny’s entire text. Her heart hammering in her chest, she met her boss’s angry gaze.
“What are you doing? The party started ten minutes ago. And why aren’t you dressed? Where’s the hair clip?” the man hissed, glaring at her through the windshield, his orange spray tan highlighting the whites of his bulging eyes.
Charlotte reached into her camera bag, wishing she could remove her camera instead of the gaudy hot-glued-to-hell hair clip.
“I’m sorry, Sutton Bryan. It’s been a busy day,” she answered, sliding the clip into her hair. She opened the car door, then swung her legs out in a well-practiced maneuver as the flared tail swooshed in the air. Moving around in this getup was a nightmare! With no help from her asshat of a boss, she arched her back, then flung herself out of the vehicle. She was no Lady Grace, but there was no other way to do it. She peered down at her shirt, hiding the shell cleavage. “How about I keep this on and let the shells peek through?” she asked, knowing what Sutton Bryan would say. Still, it was worth a shot.
The man huffed. “Charlotte, this is my art. You are a part of the process. That is what an assistant does. They assist the professional in his process.”
She’d hit a brick wall with him—again!
She gifted him with her most placating smile. “I hoped that I could assist in human being clothing at some point. It would certainly be more comfortable,” she replied, wincing as the left shell cut into her boob.
The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. With his fake tan, broad forehead, and bulgy eyes, he’d make a great bronzed bullfrog. “Do mermaids wear human being clothing?” he croaked in reply.
Her nerves started to get the best of her—a deluge of verbal vomit was surely on its way. She twisted the tail of her braid. “Sort of. They do wear bras.”
Sutton Bryan’s shiny white eyeballs might have detached from his retina as his perma-tan took on a decidedly rosier hue, and he went full bullfrog.
“Shell bras,” he countered. “Ocean bras!”
“I think an ocean bra would technically be a bikini top,” she corrected—and just as the words passed her lips, she’d regretted it.
“Do you know how much work went into the construction of that shell bra?” he squawked.
Charlotte unbuttoned her blouse, then peered down at the gaudy thing. “I don’t know.”
The boob torture device looked like something a drunk toddler made at a preschool arts and crafts fair.
Somehow, the man’s eyes bulged even more. “My mommy made it! She put hours into planning and flawlessly executing my vision.”
Wait, what?
Charlotte had to physically keep her jaw from dropping.
