Page 28 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“Go in the bar and find the nanny. It’s as easy as that,” he whispered—and excellent! He’d become one of those nuts who mutter to themselves.
He stared at the bar’s tarnished door handle. There was no turning back now.
He opened the door, and the buzz of conversation over Classic Rock drifted outdoors. He spied a seat at the bar when a guy popped out of nowhere and slapped a sticker on his chest.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed.
“Are you ready to meet your soul mate?” the man asked with a wide grin.
What kind of damned bar was this?
“Sorry, buddy, you’re not my type,” he answered, removing the sticker and tossing it into a trash can.
The dude laughed. “Aren’t you here for the speed dating event? It’s a relationship kick-starter—an event that lubricates the wheels of love.”
Where the hell did Madelyn send him?
Mitch took a step back. “What are you talking about?”
“Speed dating,” the man answered, then waggled his eyebrows like a psychopath. “It’s about to begin. Here, take a Jell-O shot and a margarita. But there’s a two-margarita limit here. These potent drinks are the perfect social lubricant.”
Mitch pegged the guy with his gaze and went into scary chef mode. “I’m not here for that. And if you saylubricantagain, I will be punching your lights out. So why don’t you step aside,” he bit back. Nobody, not even this asshat, could mistake that he wasn’t playing around.
“Sorry, man! No speed dating for you,” the guy answered, holding up his hands defensively.
Mitch headed for the bar, but not before surveying the room. It was jam-packed. And not only that. It looked like the alcoholic version of a kindergarten classroom. Tables were set out in rows with pitchers of margaritas, along with little baskets in the center. A line of women sat on one side, crossing then recrossing their legs, while a trail of men, looking like the dudes who didn’t get picked for kickball, sat on the other side. He shook his head at the saps out there so desperate for love they’d subject themselves to this.
“What can I get you, man?” a bartender asked as he settled himself on a stool.
“Club soda,” he answered, trying not to look like a total pervert as he peered down the line of women, checking for necklaces with a golden key. He scoffed. He couldn’t see shit. And this was ridiculous! He pulled his cell from his pocket. He should call Madelyn and demand she give him the nanny info. He was in no mood for games. If anything, he should be working to come up with a concept for his book. He opened the contacts app on his phone when the door swung open and a red blur bolted into the room.
“I’m not late, am I? I can’t be late!” a woman exclaimed, and his eyes almost popped out of his head as his pulse skyrocketed.
He recognized that voice.
It couldn’t be her, could it?
“Are you in need of help?” the man at the door asked. The guy had lost his mega-watt smile and frowned at the late arrival. And for a good reason. To say that this woman had chosen an interesting outfit for the speed dating event would be the understatement of the century. She brushed a tangle of hair from her face.
“No, I don’t need help! I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that. My name is Charlotte Ames. I should be on your list for the event,” she replied, her words coming out in a frantic jumble.
The breath caught in his throat. Charlotte Ames! It was her! His vegetable bandit.
The bartender set his club soda on the counter, but Mitch couldn’t look away from the absolute train wreck of a beauty that had blown in like a hurricane.
The door guy looked her up and down. “The costume contest is next week, lady. Come back then.”
He could see why the guy thought she’d mixed up the dates. The woman had rolled in with a towel draped around her shoulders. He couldn’t quite make out what was underneath it. It kind of looked like she had nothing on under it. But the bottom part of her outfit was most definitely a fishtail.
And was she barefoot?
He couldn’t tell from where he sat. He tossed a twenty onto the bar, paying for the untouched club soda, then got up and weaved his way through the mass of people. Thanks to a well-placed pinball machine, he’d found a spot where he could observe her, but she couldn’t see him.
Panic marred her features. Now that he’d gotten closer, he could tell that her hair was wet. She tucked a damp auburn strand behind her ear.
Who traipsed around town soaking wet, sporting a towel and a fishtail?
Still, in her state of dishevelment, with her hair in wild damp waves and those green eyes flashing, she was as beautiful as ever. She’d been so quiet as a waitress. That is until she called him a hothead and hurled a salad at him. He’d wondered if he would ever see her again. Not that he was complaining, but this was the last place he’d expected to run into her—and to find her dressed like a soggy fish lady to boot!
