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She turns to me. “Oh, you talk about me?”

“You watch my niece. There’s a lot to say.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended because seeing her in that dress, recalling the smoky melody of her voice, I’m dangerously close to forgetting where we are and who we are.

Connor mutters something under his breath about how he’ll never look at “the nanny” the same way again. I glare at him in warning, but he just grins.

We fall into easy conversation after that. Well, they do. Ryan cracks jokes, Connor offers sarcastic commentary, and Lena teases them right back, sliding into our group like she’s always been part of it.

I mostly watch. Listen to her laugh. Notice how she flicks her hair behind her shoulder.

“My break’s almost over.” She tosses back the rest of her water and turns to me with a mischievous smile. “Want to duet?”

My heart knocks against my ribs. She’s teasing, and I have no comeback this time. “Looks like you’ve got it handled.”

With a nod, she spins on her heels and heads back to the stage while I take the opportunity to watch her.

That’s a bad fucking idea.

When she’s back on stage and leans into the mic with that sultry tone, I’m gone all over again.

This a problem.

A big one.

Because I shouldn’t be looking at her like this, I know that. She’s Rosie’s nanny. She’s not mine to admire in a black dress, or to imagine what she sounds like singing those notes directly into my ear.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop it.

My chest is tight, my pulse is thumping, every sense dialed to the max.

I take a slow sip of my beer.

I’m not thinking about hooking up with some random woman tonight, not when Lena’s on that stage, singing like she’s weaving a spell over the entire bar.

And if I’m honest? I’m not sure I want to break it.

Thirty-Four

Lena

The last person I expected to stroll into the bar tonight was Wes.

And if you’d told me I’d be sitting in this cozy corner booth with him half an hour after my set, just... talking? I’d have called bullshit.

But here we are, and hereheis. Actually talking. Not grunting his usual morning greetings or giving one-word answers that sound like it physically hurts him to speak. No, tonight, Wes is fully engaged, leaning forward, firing questions at me like this conversation is suddenly the most interesting thing in theworld to him.

When he’s not asking questions, he’s listening. Really listening. Like I’m a puzzle he’s desperate to solve.

His friends left ten minutes ago, and I figured he’d leave with them, but he didn’t. He stayed, settling back into the booth, beer in hand, those impressively strong forearms resting casually on the table. He’s wearing a navy Henley with his sleeves pushed up, which is doing dangerous things to my blood pressure. His jeans fit like a sin, and whatever cologne he’s wearing is officially ruining my life.

I take a sip of water, shaking myself out of the fog of lust-induced idiocy. “What’s with the interrogation tonight, Turner?”

He drags his thumb along the neck of his beer bottle. “Just realizing how little I know about the person who spends half her life in my house.”

“I’m a simple creature,” I say. “Feed me coffee and let me hang out with babies, and I’m happy.”

Wes cocks a brow at me. “I’m sure there’s more to you than that.”

“Not much.”