Page 12 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Dane

I t’s a hectic morning and I’m one frayed nerve away from shifting just to burn off steam.

Meetings piling up.

App bugs to squash.

Still no word from Uncle Uzzi, except a cryptic-as-hell email that said:

Have patience, son.

Patience?

I’m hanging on by a damn whisker, and the meddling old Witch is off fortune-cookie-ing me through a life crisis.

My Cougar’s pacing under my skin, snarling, tense, horny— and let’s be honest, just this side of feral.

Because he knows.

We know.

My Pretty Girl? She’s our fated mate .

And she left.

Vanished. Poof.

Just a memory and a damn pair of pink panties under my bed.

I check the clock: 7:27 AM.

Two minutes early.

But somehow, I’m already irrationally pissed off that this nanny hasn’t arrived yet.

Because I have plans today.

Plans that involve tracking down the mystery woman who turned my brain and my bed into her playground.

“Daaaaad! Can I have another waffle?”

I glance over at Alex—my son, the tiny chaos machine—who is mid-bounce in his chair, syrup in his hair, and a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“Not now, pal. Your swim lesson’s in half an hour. I don’t want you getting sick.”

“But I’m hungry! ”

“Drink your milk. That’ll fill your tummy. And after the lesson, your new nanny can make you a snack, okay?”

He huffs. Hard. But grabs the cup like the little man he is. “Fine.”

7:29 AM.

The doorbell rings.

I storm toward it, fully ready to let this new employee know exactly how I feel about cutting it so close to her start time.

Because technically? She’s not late.

But also? I don’t care.

I’m mad. I’m anxious. I’m dangerously close to launching a full-scale magical manhunt for a woman I haven’t even exchanged last names with.

But then— I open the door.

And all the air leaves my lungs.

Because standing there, sunlight spilling over her like she ordered it from a movie set, is her.

My Pretty Girl.

Wearing clingy capri pants that hug her curvy hips like a second skin, and a flowy swing top dotted in little blue flowers.

Beautiful. Soft. Mine.

My Cougar roars , slamming against the inside of my chest like he wants to leap out and bite her. Or at least drop a claimed sign on her right here and now.

She smiles nervously.

And me? I forget every single thing I was about to say.

“Oh, um, hi ,” she says, biting her lip.

I stare.

Because the universe didn’t just throw me a bone.

It delivered my fated mate to my doorstep.

Again.

This time?

I’m not letting her walk away.

“Uh, are you Dane Alistair?” she asks, voice unsure, one hand nervously gripping the strap of her bag.

My name on her lips?

Yeah, that does things.

I swallow hard, forcing my Cougar to settle.

“Yeah, Pretty Girl,” I say, smiling slowly. “I’m Dane Alistair.”

She blinks, like she wasn’t expecting me to recognize her.

“Oh. Um. I’m Tamare Wilson. Most people call me Tam.”

“Tamare. It’s really good to see you,” I whisper.

Tamare.

Not Tam. Because I’m not most people.

Sweet, precious, delicious Tamare. Mine.

I repeat her name in my head like a prayer. Like a claim.

I grin, I can’t help it.

She’s blushing. Her cheeks are pink. Those impossibly pretty hazel eyes of hers are darting everywhere, refusing to land on me—and it's wrecking me.

Soft. Sweet. Nervous as hell.

And still, she showed up.

Even after our night together.

Even after sneaking out.

She’s here.

And suddenly I’m just— relieved.

That she’s safe.

That she’s real.

That she’s here.

I step back, holding the door open wider.

Barely stopping myself from dragging her inside.

“Come in,” I say, voice low, rougher than I mean it to be.

She hesitates. Eyes wide. Shoulders drawn up like she's about to bolt.

“Oh my God. This won’t work,” she whispers, shaking her head. “It’s a bad idea. I should’ve?—”

“Hey! Are you my new nanny?” Alex shouts, skidding into the room in socks and a Captain Lightning t-shirt. “Dad! She’s pretty!”

I stifle a groan.

Kid’s got no filter.

But he’s right.

She is. So fucking pretty.

“I’m Alexander Montgomery Alistair,” he announces proudly, “but you can call me Alex.”

Tamare’s brows lift and she laughs—a real laugh, soft and sweet and full of wonder.

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” she says, crouching down. “You can call me Tam.”

She squats down.

Right in front of me.

Her curves shift under that flowy top and my brain short-circuits.

But more than that?

She’s looking at my son like he’s a gift. Not a burden.

Like he matters.

And the rightness of it all slams into my chest like a freight train.

Her eyes lift, finding mine.

There’s something there.

Questions. Doubts. Maybe even fear.

But I press my lips together and nod— I see you —then grab her suitcase before I do something insane like yank her into my arms and tell her she’s never leaving again.

“Come on, Alex,” I say, clearing my throat. “Let’s show Tamare her room.”

It’s not where I want her.

Hell no.

I want her in my room. In my bed. Wearing nothing but those pink panties she left behind.

But this?

This will do.

For now.

Because she’s here.

And I’m not losing her again.