Page 15 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

I ’m still going over everything in my head as I step quietly out of Alex’s room, leaving him snuggled up and dreaming, peaceful as ever.

Except for the part where— once again —he asked for a snack.

After brushing his teeth.

After already having a snack.

The kid is hungry. Constantly.

And no matter how many times I wave it off with a “growing boys, am I right?” kind of smile, it’s officially starting to worry me.

I need to talk to Dane. Which means facing polite, distant, maddeningly respectful Dane.

Shit.

There’s no good reason for me to feel hesitant.

We’re adults.

Two grown, consenting people who happened to have the most mind-blowing, body-redefining night of their lives in a moonlit park.

It wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t even a mistake.

It was just— everything .

Double shit.

And if I happen to still have a lingering crush the size of a small planet, well, that’s all on me.

Because Dane? Hasn’t done a single questionable thing since I walked into this house.

Not one loaded glance.

Not a whispered Pretty Girl .

Not even a whoops, I accidentally brushed your hand and now we’re locked in a smoldering stare moment.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

I mean, who needs more toe-curling, soul-shattering orgasms that make you question every mediocre hookup you’ve ever had?

Not me. Nope.

And I’m definitely okay— sorta, mostly —with the fact that Dane clearly isn’t interested in pursuing anything beyond polite small talk and co-parent-style logistics.

Totally. Fine.

Except for the part where I still dream about him. And the way he looked at me like I was made of stars.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about Alex.

And if I have to swallow my pride, walk into that office, and talk to Dane about his son’s weirdly high-calorie needs without melting into a puddle of awkward attraction?

Then so be it.

God help me.

I mean, I’m a big girl. I know when to move on when a guy’s not interested.

And he’s not.

Well, I mean, I don’t think he is interested in me, I mean.

Dane has done nothing to suggest otherwise.

Okay, well, maybe he kinda has.

Like the times he lingers.

Stares just a little too long.

Like he’s trying to memorize me. Or maybe trying not to.

And okay, my hormones are traitors because they keep whispering that he wants me, even when his mouth is saying things like “Please make sure Alex wears sunscreen,” or “Do you need the Costco card?” and “Let’s all cook dinner together tonight.”

Which brings me to now.

See, I’m concerned. Not about my job. I mean, this is exactly what I want to do and I’m loving my time with Alex.

That child is a sunshine storm.

Smart as a whip, emotionally intuitive, and endlessly energetic.

He’s in swim class three mornings a week, karate on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and somehow also plays indoor soccer every Saturday.

I’m winded watching him, and I’m not exactly sedentary.

But here’s the thing.

The kid is always hungry.

I mean, black-hole-level bottomless pit hungry.

If I didn’t witness with my own eyes how much Dane feeds him— and I mean full, nutritious meals with actual vegetables and plenty of protein —I’d honestly think the man was starving his son.

Which he’s not. Not even close.

Dane’s a wonderful father.

I see it in every way he looks at Alex.

Every storybook he reads, even when he’s obviously exhausted.

Every patient correction and hug and “I’m proud of you, buddy.”

It melts me.

Warms places in me I thought were frozen shut.

And— okay —I just kind of wish he loved me, too.

Nope! Shut it down, Tamare. We are not going there!

I slap the mental brakes and pace a slow circle around the kitchen island, nursing a cup of chamomile tea while the house falls quiet around me.

Alex is finally asleep.

It took three stories, a shadow puppet show, and five lullaby renditions of “Zero to Hero” but he’s out.

And I know Dane’s still in his office.

I also know I’ve got to talk to him.

This isn’t about me.

This isn’t about what his mouth did to my body or how my soul seems to hum whenever he’s near.

This is about Alex.

Because something might be wrong.

The constant hunger? The intensity of it? It’s not just a kid with a fast metabolism.

I’ve worked with kids for years. I know the difference between a growth spurt and something more.

Maybe it’s a thyroid issue. Or blood sugar. Or something else entirely.

So yeah. I’m doing this.

I’m going to march into that man’s office and calmly, rationally express my concerns.

As soon as I get my nerve.

Any second now.

Yup.

“Oh my God, why am I sweating?” I murmur and sniff my armpit.

Okay. It’s fine. Yay for deodorant.

And just for the record?

The number of nights I’ve laid in bed, certain I could hear him prowling the hallway like some kind of hot, broody jungle cat?

Too embarrassing to count.

And every single time I peeked out? Nobody.

Just silence and shadows and my overactive imagination.

Okay. Enough.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and set my mug down.

This isn’t about butterflies or bad decisions or the fact that I haven’t stopped dreaming about him since I moved in.

This concerns Alex.

And I’m going to make sure that boy gets everything he needs.

Even if it means facing down the most dangerously attractive man I’ve ever met while pretending I’m not halfway in love with his little boy, and maybe a tiny bit in love with him, too.

God or literally anyone out there listening—a little help, please?