Page 7 of Curvy Nanny for the Cougar (Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate #3)

Dane

“ S o, what do I call you?” I ask as I hand her a napkin, trying to play it cool even though my heart is doing something way too close to jazz hands in my chest.

What’s with all the freaking jazz hands in my life recently?

I shake my head, refusing to take the bait on that inane line of thinking.

I turn and am just about knocked on my ass by this woman I barely even know.

She’s just so perfect. I don’t even know her name, and something in me is dying to, but she shakes her head and quirks a grin— soft and secret .

Then, she looks out toward the orchestra warming up on the stage. And she sighs contentedly, and that sound?

It unlocks something deep inside of me.

“How about we just keep it casual? No names, yet. No reality. Let’s just be .”

I don’t like it. It makes this seem so tentative, impermanent.

But yeah, I get it.

I do.

It’s that first date bubble feeling.

She doesn’t want us to burst it with real-world details.

Still, I can’t help the little sting of disappointment that creeps in.

I want to know her name.

Want to memorize it.

Want to say it low and reverent in the dark when she’s mine.

Fuck, that’s fast for me. But it’s the truth.

She makes me feel —that’s just it . I feel for the first time in a long time.

And I want her with an intensity I didn’t see coming.

Still, I nod, like this doesn’t already feel like the most important moment of my year.

We settle in, snacks balanced between us—iced teas, a warm paper pouch of sugar-dusted churros, and a pretzel the size of a dinner plate.

The food smells good, but she smells better.

Bright like citrus.

Warm like honey.

Whatever it is, I like it.

I wanna lick the pulse I see dancing at the base of her neck.

See if she tastes as good as she smells.

We talk.

Not deep stuff, just enough to open the door.

New Jersey summers.

Jersey diners versus NYC bagels.

Boardwalk fries and those ridiculous mini golf places with the animatronic pirates that always break halfway through July.

She’s a Jersey Girl— born and raised —and it does something weird to my chest.

Just then the band starts to play an instrumental version of that old rock song, Jersey Girl , by that old Jersey boy himself, Bruce Springsteen, and fuck, I am awestruck.

So far, I like everything I’m learning about her.

I like her.

And then the music gets stronger— soft strings rising like something from a dream —and we drift into silence, our bodies close but not touching, the air humming between us with something extra. Something more.

I feel peaceful.

Happy.

Desire is racing through my veins.

The night’s perfect.

Not hot enough to sweat.

Not cool enough to freeze.

Just right.

But then she shivers.

It’s the kind of full-body tremor that sends a flare of heat straight through me.

My first instinct— deep, primal, impossible to ignore —is to reach for her.

My Cougar stirs under my skin, all golden fur and prowling tension, begging to move closer.

To touch. To soothe.

So I do.

I slide a little closer, just enough to offer warmth without crowding. My shoulder brushes hers.

“You okay?” I murmur.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, she turns to me, and her eyes— God, her eyes —catch the light like they’ve got secrets of their own.

Mossy green rimmed with a gold that looks almost molten in the dusky glow of the park lights.

She looks like some kind of forest nymph made flesh, all soft curls and mystery.

And me?

I’m helpless. Completely swept under her spell.

My breath locks.

My pulse goes haywire.

And completely uncharacteristically— because I do not kiss strangers, not even drop dead gorgeous ones —I lean forward.

Just a breath.

A heartbeat.

Our eyes lock.

And then, I go for it.

I kiss her.

Soft, at first. Just the press of lips. A question.

She answers with a sigh that wraps around my bones like silk and anchors me to her mouth like a lifeline.

My hands hover, not daring to touch her until her fingers slide into the collar of my shirt and curl, pulling me closer.

Our mouths move in sync, exploring, tasting, teasing.

The churro cinnamon still lingers on her lips.

Sweet and addictive.

And suddenly, there’s nothing else in the world.

Just this kiss.

This woman.

This night.

And the wild, inescapable thought pounding behind my ribs as my Cougar growls into my mind. Just one word. And it changes everything.

Mine.