Page 11 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

L ast night was just so— wow .

I’m still reeling from it as I push open the door to Pizza Girls and step into the comforting smell of garlic, basil, and something deeply carby.

My stomach growls in appreciation.

This is dinner slash peace offering slash “thanks for letting me crash in your love nest” tribute for Kyle and Jeff.

My brother has been a saint— well, a sarcastic, nosy, clothes-optional-attitude-having (which is nothing I ever need to see again) saint —and yes, I am grateful he let me stay as long as he has.

I stretch a little as I wait for my order.

Yes, I’m sore. And in all the best ways.

My body is still humming with aftershocks from last night. Or should I say him?

D.

My mystery man with the voice that could melt panties and the body that should come with a warning label.

The things he did to me?

Honestly? They should be illegal in at least forty-seven states and three international jurisdictions.

Just saying.

But I can’t get carried away. I can’t build castles in the sky out of one wild night and a pair of golden eyes.

He’s too much.

Too smoking hot for me.

Too good to be true, really.

And I don’t want to be disappointed by a man again.

Besides, I’m still figuring my life out.

Still healing from rejection letters, weird temp jobs, and my ex who told me I was a lot .

Still learning how to live without overthinking everything and letting negativity cloud my joy.

But hey, good news? I got a job.

An actual job.

The weirdly specific, kind of demanding, very intense nanny ad?

You know, the one written by an emotionally constipated dad who sounds like he yells at Bluetooth speakers?

Yeah. That one.

He emailed me back.

So tonight, I’m rolling up my worldly possessions (two suitcases and a giant tote bag with broken wheels—she’s been through some things), and tomorrow morning at 7:30 AM sharp, I’m showing up for a two-week trial period as Alexander Montgomery Alistair’s nanny.

That is a lot of name for a little boy. Makes me grin just thinking about it.

I hope he’s okay with just Alex.

Or Lex.

Maybe even Squish if he’s extra adorable. We’ll see.

I’m just about to check the time when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the restaurant.

“Hey, it’s you!”

I glance up to see Carina, one of the owners, grinning at me like I just walked in from a trip overseas and she’s been waiting on me for weeks.

Weird. I mean, we’re not friends.

Not exactly.

We’ve chatted a bit. But that’s all.

“Oh, hi,” I say, tugging down the hem of my sundress and trying to act cool.

Too late. I am decidedly not cool.

“So?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “Did you try the app?”

I blink. “What?”

“The app! Date to Mate ?” she practically sings it, like it’s a magic spell.

“Oh. Uh, actually, I did.”

I should lie.

What am I doing telling her about that?

Carina lets out a tiny squeal. “YES! And?”

“And?” I narrow my eyes, but I’m already smiling. “You want details?”

“Obviously.”

I press my lips together. The memory of his mouth, his hands, his everything flashes across my mind like a highlight reel of sin.

“Well, yeah. It worked. I mean, I found a match and we, uh, went out or whatever.”

Yeah, I’m obviously still that cool.

Don’t be jealous.

But she ignores my awkwardness, thank God.

She leans in, wiping her hands on her apron.

“And?”

“And? It was just one night,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “No big deal.”

Carina gives me a look .

One of those ‘girl, don’t lie to me’ expressions only women fluent in relationship chaos and pepperoni oil can pull off.

Before she can launch into full interrogation mode, I clear my throat.

“Anyway, is my order ready?”

“Uh-huh,” she says slowly, handing over the bag. “Your pizza’s ready. Your denial? Not so much.”

I blush, grab the bag, and offer her a sheepish smile.

As I step back into the night, I tell myself again.

Tomorrow is a new start. A fresh chapter. One without mystery kisses or dating apps or—my phone buzzes.

It’s a reminder.

Nanny Trial Starts: 7:30 AM

The next morning, I am ready to roll at exactly 6:58 AM.

Yes. I’m that girl.

The one who shows up to flights three hours early. The one who re-reads confirmation emails twelve times. The one who packs a backup pair of underwear in her purse "just in case."

I hate being late. Sue me.

So naturally, Mr. Uptight and Demanding, aka my new boss, aka Dane Alistair, has chosen this exact moment in time to go completely silent.

No address.

No message.

No nothing.

I refresh my inbox for the billionth time, staring at the clock like it is responsible for all manner of unmentionable things.

“Coffee?” Kyle asks from behind, startling me so bad I shriek and hurl my phone across the kitchen.

“Dammit, Kyle! You scared the actual shit out of me!” I whine, clutching my heart like I’m eighty, and his voice gave me arrhythmia.

He blinks, walks over calmly, and picks up my phone like I didn’t just go full Final Girl in a supernatural horror movie.

“Sorry, sis,” he deadpans, handing it back. “But uh, actually, maybe less caffeine today?”

He eyes the trembling to-go cup in my hand like it might combust.

It might.

My whole nervous system is currently vibrating at a frequency only bats and maybe wolves can hear.

Ping.

My phone buzzes.

A text message emerges.

Dane Alistair/Nanny Job Ad

834 Main St. Penthouse.

The address. It finally comes through.

I stare at it.

And stare.

And then I stare some more.

Because something deep in my soul— and possibly in my uterus —just pinged like a mating beacon from another dimension.

Kyle sips his coffee like nothing is wrong.

Meanwhile, I’m in a full spiritual crisis.

Because, that address?

That newish brick building with ivy climbing the front and the fancy-ass buzzer system?

That’s his place.

Well, his building, at any rate.

Mystery man.

D.

The one with the golden eyes, thunder in his voice, and sex that rearranged my spine and possibly rewired my brain.

My stomach swoops.

What are the odds?

Then I recall his profile. DA123. DA. Dane Alistair.

Oh no.

Oh HELL.

“Um, Kyle?”

“Mmm hmm? Morning, sweetie,” Kyle says as Jeff ambles in and they embrace while I continue to panic. “Well, what is it Tam?”

“Uh, nothing. Just, well, I think my new boss might be the guy I slept with the other night,” I whisper.

Kyle blinks. “Okay. That’s a—a sentence .”

“Wait, you got lucky? When?” Jeff asks.

“Well, wait. It’s an apartment building, right? It doesn’t have to be him,” Kyle says.

“How many other people with the initials D and A live in one building?” I gasp. “What if it is him? What if it’s D ? From Date to Mate. What if he is my boss? Same person. ”

“Okay. Do you want me to call the cops or buy you condoms? I need direction, Tam,” Jeff interrupts, waving his phone in his hand.

I cover my face with both hands. “I need therapy.”

Kyle and Jeff both snort.

“Or maybe,” Kyle says, pulling open the fridge, “you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

I blink at him. “Did you just get all mystical on me?”

“No. I just don’t want you to move back in if this goes bad.”

Kyle shrugs, and Jeff looks anywhere but at me.

He’s a good brother. And Jeff is a great guy.

But I get it. I’ve been cramping their style.

“Fair,” I mutter.

I grab my purse, hoist my dignity over one shoulder, and march toward the door with my whole life inside rolling luggage.

Showtime.

Because apparently, I’m not just starting a new nanny job today.

And I might be walking straight into a romantic entanglement with the world’s hottest, growliest— seriously I had no idea men could make those sounds —most emotionally complicated single dad in history.

What could possibly go wrong?