Page 32 of The Nanny and the Hothead
He froze when he saw the beefy guy’s back and, on the floor, a swish of an aquamarine mermaid tale. The ape had backed Charlotte into a corner and had pinned her against the wall.
What a prick!
Without giving it a second thought, he charged down the hall. “Step back, man. Give the lady some space,” he growled, placing his hand on the dude’s shoulder.
The man craned his neck, not moving an inch. “There’s no problem here, buddy. I’m getting acquainted with the little mermaid.”
“Wrong answer,” Mitch hissed. He grabbed the guy by the collar and twisted the polyester fabric. “If you want to leave this place in one piece, I suggest you get the hell out of here.”
“Jesus!” the guy huffed. He was big, but he sure as hell wasn’t strong.
Mitch watched as the tool disappeared, then turned to find Charlotte staring up at him, wide-eyed.
“Hothead!” she exclaimed. Her mouth opened and closed a few times like…well, like a fish. “I mean, asshat chef. I mean, stupid tyrant.”
He raised an eyebrow in amusement. Looks like she had quite a few names for him.
“It’s Mitch,” he said, holding her emerald gaze.
“Mitch,” she repeated, and God help him, the syllable never sounded sweeter.
“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asked, suddenly feeling quite vulnerable himself.
She pulled the towel around her shoulders. “No, but I could use some air.”
So could he. But he couldn’t let her walk around Crystal Creek like that.
“Hold on,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt.
Her jaw dropped. “What are you doing?”
Dammit! She probably thought he was no better than the chest hair jerk.
“I have a T-shirt on under this. I think you could use a real shirt—even one that’s ten sizes too big,” he said, handing over his button-up.
She stared at the garment and touched one of the pearl white buttons. “Thank you,” she whispered, then turned those emerald eyes on him, and the breath caught in his throat. A man could lose himself in those deep pools of green. “Could you turn around, hothead?” She gasped. “I mean, Mitch. Sorry, I shouldn’t call you that. I don’t know if you recognize me. We’ve never really talked. I’m—”
“I know who you are, Charlotte,” he replied, his voice a low rumble as he spoke her name. And in that hallway, the ding of the stupid bell and the buzz of music and conversation faded away. All that existed was this spellbinding woman.
“You do?” she asked on a shaky exhale.
“I’ll turn around, so you can…” he blathered, then gestured to his shirt in her hands. He stared at the wall, searching the scuffs for some sort of message. What was going on? What was he doing? Why did he feel as if he were about to combust into a million tiny pieces? He should go. Charlotte was fine—well, as fine as a drunk chick dressed like a mermaid could be.
“I’m ready,” she said, then took a wobbly step and tripped on the damned fishtail. Reflexively, he lunged forward and caught her by the elbows. She pressed her hands to his chest, gathering the fabric of his T-shirt into her fists.
“That fishtail is a real piece of work,” he said because he didn’t know what the hell else to say with her tequila-infused breath warm against his lips.
Charlotte nodded, then captured him again with her emerald eyes. “Will you wait for me?”
He’d damn near wait his entire life for her.
He blinked.
Pull yourself together!
“Sure,” he replied as he released her from his grip, and she disappeared into the ladies’ room. He’d barely waited a minute before she emerged—tail-less. He drank in her bare legs. His button-up was long enough to cover her ass and hung about mid-thigh. A strange primal sense of victory washed over him. This woman, in his shirt with her tangle of red hair and toned thighs on display, had to be the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
“Look, I’m a human being. I have legs,” she replied, doing a little twirl that did a number on his cock.
