Page 17 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

“ W hat the?—”

I jolt awake, breath hitching as reality crashes in like a freight train made of glitter and confusion.

Floating heads. Glowing eyes. Dane.

Dane.

“Easy, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs, voice low and steady—like it was made to talk me off ledges.

His arms are strong and sure, holding me like I’m something precious and breakable.

One hand is pressed to my back, the other curved around my hip.

His thighs—holy hell, his thighs—are thick and solid beneath me. I’m in his lap.

I’m in his lap. Squeal.

I should probably sit up. I mean, I’m a big girl, and laps aren’t usually built for all this.

But his lap? It’s more like a throne.

A very sexy, rock-hard, made-for-my-curves throne.

And the way he's holding me, like I’m a prize he plans to unwrap with his teeth?

Yeah, I’m not moving.

Not now, not ever.

Well, maybe a little just to get cozy.

Maybe I should say something.

Like, hey, do you mind if I crush your thighs with all this ass?

But he hasn’t so much as flinched.

In fact, he seems pleased.

Like really pleased.

Like I-need-to-adjust-myself-before-I-embarrass-us-both pleased.

I bite my lip.

His golden gaze drops to my mouth.

“Just so we’re clear, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and sin, “if you keep wiggling like that, I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be having a serious conversation.”

I blink up at him.

Did he just say that, or am I hallucinating?

But Dane’s still staring at me like I’m the only thing in the room.

Like there never was a floating head.

Like this—we—is the most important thing happening in the world.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern etched into his gorgeous face. “Need something? Water?”

I nod, mostly because my brain is mush and my mouth is staging a protest.

“Got anything stronger?” I croak.

His grin is devastating. “Yeah. Hang on.”

He shifts me—and oh my God, I actually whimper when he lifts me like I weigh nothing and deposits me gently onto a buttery soft leather sofa.

For one half-second, I consider throwing myself back at him like a koala.

Instead, I cross my legs, adjust my tank top, and try to remember how to breathe like a normal person who didn’t just faint from magical exposure and land on the world’s hottest single dad.

“Ever try Summer Bite?” he asks, already moving to a sleek bar cart. “It’s from a distillery in South Jersey. One of my favorite clients owns it. Mason Lane. Good guy. Family operation. They make one hell of a good whiskey.”

He drops a perfectly round ice sphere into a heavy glass, pours two fingers of amber liquor, and brings it over.

“Here.”

I take a sip.

It’s smoky, a little sweet, with a bite that licks fire down my throat and settles in my chest like courage.

I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Thanks.”

He nods, then lowers himself onto the sofa beside me, taking a sip of his own drink.

The air between us hums. Thick. Charged.

Then, softly, “Did you come here to talk, Tamare? I assume you have questions.”

I nearly laugh, but it comes out more like a sharp exhale.

“Yeah. I did. I came to talk about Alex, actually. But then I saw a floating head, and now I’m re-evaluating every life choice I’ve ever made, including eating gas station sushi that one time and swiping right on you.”

He winces like I slapped him.

“Wait—Alex? Is something wrong?”

And that. That little shift— his body going alert, his voice tightening with concern, the way he immediately pivots from ghost head chaos to full-on Dad Mode —that’s the moment I melt.

This man loves his son.

Visibly. Fiercely.

That’s the kind of love that makes you feel safe just being near it.

The kind of love that makes your ovaries whisper sweet nothings and your soul think maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to hope.

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, not wrong, exactly. But I’ve noticed he’s always hungry. Like constantly. And I’m not judging, I swear—I’ve seen you feed him. He just eats like three kids his age. I’m wondering if maybe, I don’t know, if he’s had his thyroid checked? Or maybe his metabolism is high?”

Dane’s quiet for a moment.

Too quiet.

His glass is halfway to his mouth, but he lowers it slowly.

His gaze is warm, adoration in his expression and me? I’m stumped.

“That’s what you were worried about?” he says, eyes intense. “You were worried about my son’s health?”

“Yes?” I say, uncertain now. “Why do you look like I just solved a riddle?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just sets his drink down, turns toward me fully, and his gaze drops to my lips for a breath too long.

“Goddamn it, Pretty Girl, you are absolutely fucking perfect. Do you know that? Do you know how amazing you are?”

I swallow.

He grins and takes both glasses, placing them on the table. Then he moves closer to me on the couch.

“We need to talk, Pretty Girl. About a lot of things.”

Oh boy.

My stomach does a triple axel.

Including, apparently, whatever the hell that floating head was.