Page 56 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“I’m not a nice guy,” he warned, tucking a lock of hair that had broken free of her ponytail behind her ear. Unable to stop himself, he allowed his hand to linger. His thumb brushed past her earlobe, and she inhaled a tight breath.
“Is that what you tell yourself?” she replied.
Her sweet scent and the heat of her body drew him in like a siren’s song. His breathing grew ragged as she rested the palms of her hands against his chest. What was this between them? The angry, skeptical, untrusting part of him would want to write it off as a reaction to extreme stress and the topsy-turviness of his out-of-control life. But those clawing, negative voices quieted when Charlotte was near. It was intoxicating to come out from under the angry, seething weight he carried each day.
“Mitch?” she whispered.
“Yeah?” he rasped, under her spell, ready to give her whatever she wanted.
She gathered the fabric of his shirt into her tiny fists, and he leaned in another inch. His heart pounding, he twisted her ponytail around his hand. His fantasies couldn’t hold a candle to the reality of touching her.
“We should…” she breathed, arching into him as he tugged the locks, tightening his grip. Her lips parted as she gasped, and the alluring sound went straight to his rock-hard cock.
He could kiss her right now. One kiss. That’s all he’d need—one little taste, and then he’d put on the blinders, go back to being an epic asshole, and treat her like anyone else. She was his kid’s nanny. That’s it. Nothing more.
Dammit! Who was he kidding? Her mere presence pushed those thoughts to the back burner.
“What should we do, Charlotte?” he said instead, coming in close enough to whisper against the shell of her ear.
“We should check on Oscar,” she finished, releasing his shirt.
Andpop—no, more likewham! The bubble around them didn’t pop. It burst.
One kiss? What kind of bullshit was that? There could be no kissing this woman.
He stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides.
What was he thinking?
Were they going to make out like horny teenagers against the side of the RV with his son inside? He inhaled a steadying breath, then caught a whiff of chocolate in the air—his damned canine-strength nose, homing in on the scent.
Get ahold of yourself!
He cleared his throat and started toward the door. He had to get her out of his head. “I think Oscar started without us.”
“Started what?” she asked, following him into the RV where the smell intensified—and for a good reason.
“Oh, my gosh! So much for a whole box of chocolate,” she said softly, but there was a nervous lilt to her tone. They were back to square one, dancing around each other like they each had two left feet.
Maybe it was better this way.
They took in the cocoa-infused crime scene. Oscar’s chocolate binge gave them something to focus on besides the insane attraction that sparked between them. He folded his arms. The kid had outdone himself in the junk food department. Oscar had made a nest of cushions on the pullout bed where Charlotte had slept last night. He’d cuddled in with a Halloween-haul amount of chocolate at his disposal. Surrounded by a sea of pillows and a ton of empty wrappers, the boy slept peacefully with half a candy bar clutched in his hand.
Charlotte removed the chocolate from his grip, then smoothed Oscar’s hair. “He might wake up with a tummy ache,” she said, leaving Oscar’s side and heading to the kitchenette. She wet the corner of a hand towel in the sink, then gently wiped the chocolate residue from the corners of the boy’s mouth. “I’m not surprised you fell asleep, Oscar. It’s been quite a day,” she finished, setting the towel aside.
Mitch shifted his stance. He should do something. He should busy himself as well. But he didn’t. He simply watched as she went to work removing Oscar’s shoes. She looked around the RV, then plucked a blanket off one of the chairs and tucked the boy in on the sleeper couch.
Oscar curled into a ball, then yawned a heavy sigh. “Good night, Charlotte. I’m glad the owl took the skunk and not you,” the boy commented in a dreamy slur before dozing off.
Mitch stared at his son as a lump formed in his throat.
“Sleep well, Oscar,” she whispered with such gentle kindness it went straight to his battered heart like a salve. She lifted the corner of one of the pillows and removed a Polaroid shot. “Wow,” she breathed, staring at the picture.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s us.” She passed him the photo. It was the shot that had pulled him from his Charlotte-induced stupor. The camera had caught them staring at each other. He was smiling at her—there was no doubting the slight curve to his lips. He gritted his teeth. Dammit! He couldn’t keep entertaining this bullshit. It was too much. This picture could be the damned definition of a Mr. Cheesy Forever. No, more like aMr. Sucker Who Should Know Better.
“Let’s call it a night. I’ll take down the tent. I can bunk next to Oscar on the other pullout couch, and you can have the bed in the back,” he barked, not waiting for her reply. It was time to act like the damned hothead she’d labeled him. And he could use some fresh air to help get his head on straight—both heads. The strain in his pants wasn’t because his trousers were too small. Nope, that reaction happened thanks to the raw, undeniable attraction that he had to get under control. He strode outside, stood next to the tent, and closed his eyes, listening to the forest landscape come alive at night. But his pulse kicked up when the door opened and shut behind him.
