Page 12 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar
Now, I’m staring down at the saddest display table materials known to man: half a stack of glossy Legalese for Not-So-Dummies brochures (slightly rumpled), three branded pens, and a mug I definitely didn’t bring with me but now inexplicably says #1 Magical Litigator.
I sigh and begin to unpack what’s left of the sad little spread.
A couple of books of matches—didn’t know that was still a thing.
Buttons—who needs more of these?
And a headband with a flashing light—wtf?
Was it a failure?
Actually, no. Weirdly enough, the app got attention.
An entire Vampire coven from the Eastern Realm was all over it—they’ve apparently been suing a rival blood bank over misbranded O-negative.
Big problem with legalese when you’re several centuries behind on modern vernacular.
Luckily, my app comes equipped with translation services in six hundred and thirty-two languages and dialects, including archaic Vampire shorthand and something called Ancient Dryad Click-Speak, which I didn’t even know was real until yesterday.
So yeah. Not a waste.
I should be heading back to Keeton’s place, the quiet mountain cabin with the wraparound porch and the creaky stairs that Alex loves pretending are part of a pirate ship.
But when I texted him, my kid sent back a voice memo that said—and I quote—“Dad, pleeease let me stay till Sunday. Aunt Lena said she’s making the bacon that tastes like candy. You love candied bacon. Don’t be a bacon thief.”
He’s not wrong.
Lena’s French toast is legendary.
The bacon? Illegal levels of good.
So how could I say no?
I texted back:
Dad/Dane
Fine, pal. But don’t start a forest fire, and if Keeton says you pounced on a wild bear cub again, I’m revoking your sugar privileges.
Now it’s 7:04 PM, and I’m bored.
Too early for bed.
Too late to go for a walk without getting propositioned by whatever Unseelie creature is lurking near the pool and hot tub on the thirteenth level—it’s happened before.
The condo I own is in a building mostly occupied by supernaturals. I was as surprised by it as anyone, and initially, I thought it would be good for Alex.
But like with everything else, it has its ups and downs—and no, that was not a bad Dad joke about elevators.
I flop onto the mattress. The ceiling fan wobbles ominously overhead. I reach for my phone.
And of course, there it is.
Glowing like a beacon from the digital void.
Date to Mate.
Still installed. Still sparkly. Still smug.
