Page 29 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“This isn’t a costume,” she replied, then glanced down and grimaced. “Okay, it might look like a mermaid costume. It’s my work clothing. I wasn’t able to change into my normal clothes. You see, my boss, well, I guess he’s my ex-boss now. He has my shirt. I didn’t have a good opportunity to ask for it back. He’d already fired me.” She took a breath. “I’m dressed like this for a party. I stand there in my grand mermaid-ness, and children take pictures with me. But Grover Cleveland Schulte pushed me into the pool, and then I lost that job. Yes, that’s how it happened, and now I’m here,” she finished with a weak grin.
“You lost your job as a professional mermaid because a dead president pushed you into a pool?” the guy asked, looking half-ready to call security and have her removed.
She shrugged, and the towel opened, revealing shells. Shells! That’s all she had on under that towel. He noticed a glint of gold around her neck that trailed into her hair. The woman was the walking definition of a hot aquatic mess.
She pulled the towel around her body. “No, Grover Cleveland Schulte—he’s not a dead president. He’s a little boy. And I’m not a professional mermaid. I’m a photographer. No, I’m a photographer’s assistant. Well, I was a photographer’s assistant,” she rattled, then plucked a margarita from the guy’s tray. “Hold on! After the day I’ve had, I need this. I haven’t had anything but a latte today. I’m totally parched.” She downed one margarita, then tossed the empty plastic cup into a trash can before downing another.
This woman did not mess around with the margs!
“You should only have two max,” the guy advised as she lifted a third cup to her lips and knocked it back.
Part of him was half impressed. The other part was a little afraid of this badass boozehound.
She wiped the back of her wrist across her lips as she shifted a tote bag to her other hand. “Listen, sir, I have to attend this speed dating event. Everything in my life has pointed me to this one moment and to this one place. Tonight, I’ll find the man of my dreams. I just know it.”
Was she serious? What on God’s green earth would make her think she’d meet the man of her dreams at a cheesy event like this?
The door guy nodded. “Fine, I’ll let you in. But the minute you pull any Disney mermaid princess bullshit, you’re out.”
Charlotte swayed, then pressed her hand to the wall to get her balance.
Could she already be feeling the effects of the alcohol? She did mention she’d only had a latte today.
This could be bad! He had a sneaking suspicion that a petite redhead plus no food plus downing three potent drinks in under thirty seconds, like some idiot eighteen-year-old kid on Spring Break, would not be a winning combination for the recently sacked mermaid.
She stared into the door guy’s eyes. “I promise, sir, no funny business. I may look like a human being, but I’m a mermaid.”
The guy cocked his head to the side.
“Wait!” she crooned, then reached for a fourth margarita and tossed it back.
Mitch cringed. That was a lot of tequila for such a tiny person.
“I may look like amermaid, but I’m really ahuman being,” she restated before gifting the door guy with a wide boozy grin.
“Don’t make me regret this,” the guy answered warily, clearly not one hundred percent sold, but he handed her a sticker with a number on it.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she gushed. “You’ve played a pivotal role in changing my life.”
Again, with this life-fate bullshit! Was she seeing the same thing he was? This place looked like the location where true love went to fucking die. From what he could tell, the majority of people came for the booze.
“Here’s how it works,” the door guy said, ignoring her over-the-top enthusiasm. “This is lightning speed dating. One minute in each round. You’ll pull a question from the basket on the table. Write your answer on a pink slip of paper while the guy writes his on one of the blue slips. At the end of the night, you write down the number of your three top choices, and we’ll see if you’ve made a match.”
“Okay, got it!” Charlotte replied, smiling like the guy had given her the world.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” the door guy added, “when I ring the bell to switch, everyone has to do a Jell-O shot.”
A different kind of bell went off in Mitch’s head—alarm bells. The last thing Charlotte needed after pounding four margaritas was an onslaught of Jell-O shots. But what was he supposed to do? Jump out from behind the pinball machine and shout, Surprise, it’s your old boss! You know, the guy you called a stupid hothead. You might want to take it easy on the hard liquor.
No, he had to hang back. Still, panic prickled through him as he watched the waitstaff place the small paper cups filled with the gelatinous red substance on each table.
Here’s the thing. It wasn’t his business if she decided to guzzle a pitcher of margaritas, hoover a tray of Jell-O shots, then jump on the table, rip off that towel, then belt out the complete soundtrack toThe Little Mermaidin nothing but a fishtail and a shell bra. He should be scouring the joint for the nanny with a gold key on her necklace. But something inside of him couldn’t abandon this total wreck of a woman, who most likely hated his damned guts.
“You can sit there—at that spot near the corner,” the guy directed. Charlotte wobbled over to the table. The fish skirt didn’t allow for much movement. And sweet Christ! It hugged her curves in all the right places, revealing one hell of an ass. It swayed from side to side as she moved through the crowd. And, unable to stop himself, another Charlotte fantasy took hold. His fingertips tingled as he played out the delicious scenario of gripping those perfect orbs of prime ass and—
Ding, ding, ding, ding!
“Gentlemen, find your first table. We start in ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”
