Page 36 of The Nanny and the Hothead
His heart nearly stopped beating as she ran her fingertips down his jawline. And suddenly, he had the urge to lift her onto his lap and kiss her until he couldn’t remember how to poach an egg.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice a low rasp as he fought the impulse.
“Pass me my bag, please,” she replied, not answering his question.
Regaining his bearings, he did as she asked. The woman went to work, pulling out the mermaid tail and the broken heels before removing a camera.
She held it up and framed a shot—a shot of him. “Don’t move. It’s hazy, but this light is perfect, and I can get the truck in the background. Hothead in Heaven.”
He didn’t like being filmed or photographed anymore. Once upon a time, he’d lived for it. But not anymore. His first impulse was to tell her to put the camera away. But he didn’t.
Click.
“I got it,” she chimed.
“What did you get?” he asked.
She met his gaze in the misty darkness. “The man behind the hothead.”
With the scent of pizza and her strawberry sunshine scrambling his senses, he felt as if he’d hoovered those four margaritas. “Who do you think that is?” he asked. It was an honest question—he truly didn’t know the answer.
“It’s—” she began, then hiccupped and bent over.
Here it comes! Tiny woman versus tequila! They were bound to get to this portion of the night where she parted ways with the boatload of alcohol she’d ingested.
He rested his hand on her back. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No, but I need to lie down,” she replied, curling up on the bench and resting her head in his lap. She shifted, pulling her arms out of the sleeves. She twisted, this way and that, before shooting her arm out of the left sleeve. He cocked his head to the side. There was something clenched in her fist. “Hold this, would you?” she asked.
He took the item and held it to the light. “Is this the shell bra?”
She cuddled into him. “Yeah, I’m good at taking off my bra under my shirt. What time is it?” she asked, her voice sounding far-off.
He swallowed hard. “It’s almost eleven.”
“PM?” she pressed.
He chuckled. “It’s usually light out at eleven a.m. So yes, it’s eleven p.m.”
“I missed it. I screwed up again,” she mumbled.
He brushed the hair from her face. “What did you miss?”
“The lock guy,” she replied with a yawn.
Immediately, he pictured the lock Madelyn had given him—the lock still tucked away in his pocket.
“A locksmith?” he asked on a shaky breath.
She rolled onto her back, stared up at him, then undid the top button on her shirt, well, his shirt, and slipped a chain from beneath the fabric.
No way!
Thanks to the towel she’d wrapped around her shoulder, he hadn’t noticed what had been hanging from the gold chain around her neck.
“No, I don’t need a locksmith. I was supposed to wear this key necklace to meet my new boss,” she finished, holding a gold key—the gold key from the picture—between her fingers.
Blood pounded in his ears, whooshing and thumping like a roaring river.
