Page 6 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Tamare

I t’s Saturday night and I’m still in my leggings with a half-eaten brownie on my plate and a growing list of questionable life choices in my inbox.

Kyle and Jeff are off, living it up. Dinner. Movie. Disgustingly blissful with their relationship.

Ugh.

I mean, I love them, but I just don’t have it in me to be happy for them right now.

I take a breath and look at the open windows on my laptop screen.

One of them shows my very polite email I sent earlier in the day to Mr. Dane Alistair, potential employer and Nanny Job Poster #47 from the online listings.

It was short and professional, despite the very intense tone of the job post.

Seriously, the man sounded like he ran a military academy for five-year-olds.

Still, I need a job.

And this one comes with a private room and a real adult-sized bathroom.

But now?

Now I’m staring at the other thing that’s been taunting me all day.

The Date to Mate ad.

It's followed me across every website I’ve visited like a glittery stalker.

Sparkly fonts. Animated stars. Some suspiciously charismatic old man who winks every time I try to scroll past.

I mean, even Carina— the server at Pizza Girls with the great eyebrows and suspiciously good skin —swore by it. Said she found her guy on it.

“Best decision of my life,” she gushed, topping off my iced tea. “Give it a whirl. Beats eating alone.”

Well, here I am. Still eating alone.

Brownie crumbs. No prospects. No pants with buttons.

“You know what?” I mutter, wiping my hands and grabbing my tablet. “Let’s be wild. It’s Saturday. It’s summer. And I’m a grown-ass woman.”

I download the app.

The sign-up is weirdly fast.

Like, scarily fast. I barely finish typing “likes cheese, books, and not being murdered on first dates” when the screen glows.

MATCH FOUND.

What.

A little heart pulses next to the username: DA123

Thirty-eight. Single. Local.

The app cheerfully informs me he’s “less than a mile away!”

Which is either adorable or a security breach.

And then the real kicker.

I send the first message, asking him if he wants to hang out.

Like, who even am I anymore? That is not something I normally do.

But before I can fall down the rabbit hole that is my own anxiety about dating, he replies.

DA123: There’s a summer concert series in the park a few blocks from me. Orchestra night. It’s free?

I bite my lip.

Am I really doing this?

I glance down at myself.

Still in the leggings.

Still in the oversized shirt that says I Nap With Cats even though I don’t own a cat.

Nope. I do not.

Okay. If I’m doing this, I’m doing this.

I hit reply before I chicken out: Sounds good. Send the address and I’ll meet you there!

DA123: See you soon. (Map attached.)

“Oh my God, I am doing this!” I gasp.

I abandon the brownie on the coffee table, fling open my makeshift closet— aka the DVD shelf in my brother’s living room —and let out an unhinged little squeal like a woman on the verge of a very hot, very possibly magical date.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in a wrap dress that flutters around my knees and hugs my curves just right.

The color’s a soft coral that makes my skin glow and my boobs look amazing.

A little mascara, a swipe of gloss, and suddenly I remember what it feels like to feel excited.

There’s music in the air as I reach the park, drifting across the lawn from the stage at the center—rich, soaring classical arias backed by a full orchestra.

It’s magic. Actual magic.

The sun’s setting. The lights are soft. People are stretched out on picnic blankets and lawn chairs.

There’s even a vendor selling pretzels and churros.

And that’s when I see him—don’t ask me how I know, I just know . I mean, yeah, I saw his profile pic, but it was blurry and small.

In person, he isn’t blurry or small at all.

He’s standing off to the side in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, looking like he stepped out of a Calvin Klein catalog for Single Dads Who Might Secretly Be Superheroes.

The minute I spot him, everything tilts. Not in a dizzy, need-to-sit-down kind of way—more like the universe did a double-take and whispered, “Oh, it’s you.”

He’s tall. Like, really tall.

Broad shoulders straining his shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal powerful forearms that look like they’ve actually lifted more than a laptop.

His hair’s this warm, medium brown. All windswept like he just walked out of a cologne ad, and when he smiles?

Yeah. I forget my own name for a second.

“Hi,” I manage, ridiculously proud that I don’t squeak.

“TW?” he asks, his voice so deep it practically reverberates through my spine.

There’s a rumble underneath it, a gravelly tone that does inexplicable things to my insides.

“Yep. That’s me.”

I tilt my head to look at him because I’m pretty short, and most people are tall to me.

But—holy heck. Wowza.

He is just so big.

Sharp-jawed and golden-eyed.

There’s something in the way he watches me approach— like he sees everything, and he likes what he sees.

I clutch my purse tighter and smile, heart pounding.

“So, you’re DA123?” I ask, breathless.

He smirks, just a little. “Guilty.”

And he smiles, like one of those full on panty-melting smirks I’ve spent most of my adulthood reading about.

Oh yeah. I’m in trouble.

Hopefully, it’s the good kind.

He nods and gestures toward the grass clearing just off the park’s paved path.

“I grabbed us a spot near the stage. Hope you don’t mind music up close.”

“Not at all,” I say, trying to sound casual as I follow him.

I don’t trip.

Yay for small victories.

When we reach a cozy little patch by the trees, he shrugs off his sweatshirt and spreads it on the grass like some courtly Elizabethan knight.

“Here—don’t want your dress getting grass-stained.”

It’s chivalrous. Charming, even.

But then? I swear I hear something growl softly from the shadows beside the tree line.

I freeze. “Did you hear?—?”

He doesn’t react. Just gives me another smile that could melt a glacier and says, “Wanna grab some snacks and drinks before we sit?”

I nod, tucking a stray curl behind my ear and trying to convince myself that it was just a dog.

Or my imagination.

Definitely not some cryptid-level beast watching from the foliage.

“Um, sure.”

As we make our way toward the little food carts dotting the sidewalk, my nerves do that thing. The thing where I start second-guessing everything.

He’s polite. Asking if I prefer iced tea or coffee. If I want churros or pretzels.

But even as I nod and give answers— iced tea, churros, please —I can’t stop the old whispers in the back of my brain.

Is he offering you food because you’re fat?

Is he being extra nice to make up for the fact that you’re not a size two?

I hate those voices.

They don’t sound like me.

They sound like every fashion magazine, every dating app profile that ghosted the moment they saw a full-body pic.

Every family friend who said, “Don’t worry, you have such a pretty face.”

It’s ridiculous. He’s just being nice. Considerate.

But even in my wrap dress— the one that hugs my curves in a way that gives me some confidence —I can’t shut those thoughts down completely.

Still, something about tonight feels good .

The music drifting from the stage.

The sweet smell of roasted nuts and popcorn in the air.

The couples scattered across the lawn, some with kids curled up on picnic blankets or scribbling in coloring books.

It’s soft. Dreamy.

I always wanted to be a mom. It was the plan before the plan changed.

Before PCOS— Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome —and heartbreak and the slow realization that being single might mean shelving that dream indefinitely.

But here I am.

On a date with a man who looks like he was carved by a very dedicated thunder god.

And when our fingers brush as we reach for the same napkin, and his amber eyes meet mine with something that looks a lot like wonder?

I feel it.

That flutter.

That spark.

That thing I haven’t felt in way, way too long.

And suddenly, all those worries go right out of my head.