Page 33 of The Nanny and the Hothead
He glanced away. “I can see that.”
“Can you break the heel off this sucker? I tried in the bathroom, but I wasn’t strong enough,” she said, then handed him a high heel.
He frowned. “Why do you want me to break your shoe?”
She pulled a broken shoe from her tote. “My heel broke today in the middle of the road. And I almost got run over by a Mercedes. I stopped traffic and everything. If you break that one,” she said, touching the heel in his hand. “I’ll have a pair of flats. Pretty awesome, right?”
Hello, alcohol buzz!
He shrugged. It was her damned shoe. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the slender heel.
“Great!” she exclaimed, slipping on the jacked-up heel-less heels when her stomach gave one hell of a growl.
She gasped, looking adorably embarrassed as her cheeks turned scarlet. “Was that me?”
He bit back a grin. “It wasn’t me.”
She pressed her hand to her belly. “What does that mean?”
Again, he nearly smiled. It was the first time in God knows how long he’d felt the inclination. “It means you’re hungry, Charlotte.”
“I’m hungry,” she repeated as if he’d just shared the secrets of the universe with her.
“Let’s get out of here. And let me carry that for you,” he said, taking her giant-ass tote bag as she took his arm.
“Do you mind if I hold on to you? Everything is a little off-balance,” she said, tightening her grip on his bicep.
Did he mind?
He should!
He wasn’t that guy anymore. He didn’t hold hands, and he certainly didn’t parade around town with a woman on his arm like he’d bounced back into the Victorian age. But he couldn’t say no to her.
“It’s fine,” he answered. But it was more than fine. It was grounding. In a world where he saw darkness, her touch lifted the veil and gave him a glimpse of the light.
“I remember seeing something!” she exclaimed, pulling him down the hall, her broken shoes clomping along the hardwood floor.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
She leaned against him as she charged forward—without the mermaid tail, this spitfire of a woman could move.
“To heaven!” she declared.
He stared down at her. He didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about. But he now knew what four super-potent margaritas did to this chick.
With a bit of bumping around and several apologies, they worked their way through the crowd and made it out onto the sidewalk. She stopped and took a deep breath, then grinned up at him. “Heaven’s not far!” she exclaimed.
He inhaled. And holy shit! She wasn’t wrong. Heaven was close by. But she wasn’t talking about the place with pearly white gates and winged saints in robes. No, she was talking about pizza.
“See, hothead! I told you. I drove by it on my way to the bar,” she said, pointing at the Heavenly Pizza food truck.
He nodded. It was the only thing he could do.
“I love, love, love food trucks!” she gushed, then frowned. “You probably hate them. They’re probably not fancy enough for Denver’s top chef.”
He did hate them. But not for the reason she’d thought.
“How about this? To thank you for lending me your shirt, I’ll buy you a slice,” she offered, leaning into him as they descended upon the truck.
