My (Mostly) Temporary Nanny: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

by Penelope Bloom

18

  Jack

  I had the waitress seat us outside once we arrived at the restaurant. Our table was on a small rooftop veranda fenced in by an ivy-covered wood lattice. Nola had apparently used the money I’d given her to buy an ankle-length dress that hugged her form around the hips and chest. She had on a cardigan over it that gave her the slightly adorable look of a teacher or a librarian.

  Her usually braided hair was down over her shoulders and straight, as well, which I found far sexier than I should have.

  I shifted in my chair, then rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. “So,” I said, feeling uncharacteristically awkward. I’d been on countless dates just like this. Except I’d never been on a date that was supposed to fail.

  “So,” Nola echoed. She rested her chin on the backs of her hands, then wiggled her eyebrows. “Am I supposed to make tonight a disaster? Is that how this goes?”

  “To be completely honest, I’ve never done this.”

  “Oh, is that so? You’ve never paid a woman to go on a date with you so you could prove you won’t sleep with her? How strange. This is like my tenth of these in the past month.”

  I grimaced. “I owe you an apology for this, by the way. I talked before I thought last night. And I didn’t consider how selfish this whole idea was.”

  “Well, thank you. And yes, it is selfish.” As usual, Nola softened any possible bite to her words with a mischievous smile. “However,” she added very slowly. “I prefer to look at the world as optimistically as I can. And I chose to be flattered that Jack Kerrigan thinks I’m a juicy piece of meat he wishes he could sink his teeth into.”

  Fuck. Just watching her lips form the words only made the desire thumping in my chest intensify. I didn’t just want a taste. I wanted to lay her out on the nearest flat surface—to swipe my hand across the table and clear every last plate and piece of silverware. I wanted her spread out beneath me so I could unwrap her like a present, and I wanted to do it so badly I could feel the painful ache of need between my legs already.

  “I appreciate that you’re putting up with me,” I said.

  With the most uncomfortable element already out in the open, Nola and I fell into what seemed like natural conversation. We both ordered the same meal—a spaghetti and meatballs—and shared a bottle of red wine.

  We were polishing off the remains of our dessert as the sun set behind the skyscrapers to my side. Nola had a habit of running a hand through her hair and then starting to idly braid pieces of it into long, intricate strands. It was as if her hands moved on their own while she spoke, endlessly weaving.

  She was telling me a story from her restaurant job, but I’d let my mind wander to the pink shine of her lips and the way her pale neck pulsed above her clavicle. My eyes followed her slender fingers as they twirled a strand of scarlet hair into a spiral, then released it to splay out over her shoulder.

  “...and he told me to try this stuff,” Nola was saying. “I think it was called EndoRush? He said it was like an energy drink, but stronger. So he set the bottle down and it was so small I figured I was supposed to drink the whole thing. I drained it, then he looked at me like I’d just lit my hair on fire. He was like, ‘did you just drink that whole thing?’”

  I smirked. “This guy was your boyfriend?”

  Nola gave me a half smile. “Yeah. For a couple months. So anyway, I now know what it’s like to be on speed, because that stuff might as well have been a narcotic. My night ended when everyone found me in the walk-in freezer playing the bongo drums on some buckets of cheese. They said I was sweating so much it looked like my head was steaming.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I should try that stuff before a game some time.”

  “I heard they banned it, actually. I wonder why. Anyway, I’ve told you like four of my most embarrassing stories now. You’ve got to at least give me one of yours.”

  “Who says I have any?”

  Nola gave me the stink eye. “Even the great Jack Kerrigan, elite athlete with impeccable eye-hand coordination who sometimes tackles couches and often stubs toes, kicks end tables, and bangs his head on things, must have a story.”

  “There is one, I guess.” I couldn’t believe I was about to repeat this story aloud, but Nola had a way of making me feel at ease. Too at ease. “It was my first legit date, and—”

  “Wait. Classify ‘legit.’”

  “As in my parents didn’t drive me to the movie theater, drop me off, and pick me up. This was junior year of high school, and—”

  “Wait,” she said, showing no concern for interrupting me at every turn. “You didn’t have a real date until junior year?”

  “I caught a baseball to the eye socket when I was a freshman. All I remember was hearing the crack of the bat and then I was waking up in a hospital bed. At first, they said I’d be blind in one eye. Then severely limited. Then they gave up trying to figure out what the hell I’d be. But it did cause the occasional issue with coordination.”

  “Oh my God,” Nola winced. “I’m the world’s biggest asshole. I’ve been teasing you about being a klutz and it’s because of a medical condition?”

  “It’s alright. I don’t really need both eyes to agree to throw a strike. Catching the ball can be a little trickier and hitting one with a bat would be damn near impossible. But on that first date I was still struggling. We were in my car—it was this beat up truck that only started once out of every ten tries. I romantically drove us through a fast food place to get burgers, fries, and milkshakes. I thought a gentleman would dig the greasy food out of the bag for his date, so I reached to hand her the fries and wound up dumping them on the floor. Then I got out of the car, spent a while on my knees trying to collect as many fries and as little dog hair as I could. I stuffed it all back in the fry sleeve and spilled it again when I reached up to hand it to her.”

  Nola was holding back a smile. “Am I allowed to laugh? Or is it still too soon?”

  “You can laugh,” I said. “And it’s not over. I also didn’t realize the lid of my milkshake was loose. I wound up catching a huge splash of vanilla to my crotch. And,” I said after letting out a small sigh. “Half the baseball team saw me get out of the car and head into the restaurant for more napkins. They thought the spilled shake looked like jizz. And Even Flow just happened to be playing over the restaurant speakers at that moment.”

  “The Pearl Jam song? Oh, no.” Nola said, breaking with laughter. “Did they call you Pearl Jam?”

  “It could’ve been worse. I learned to play the guitar next year so if anyone asked, I could claim it was for my musical tendencies.”

  “Oh my God,” Nola laughed. “That’s horrible and great. But I’m sorry. I think I’m also starting to wonder if I’m not the first woman who introduced herself to you by rubbing your crotch.”

  I raised an eyebrow, not immediately remembering what she was referring to. All I could think of was the image of Nola with her hand on my cock.

  She saw the look on my face, then cleared her throat. “At the restaurant. You spilled something on your lap there, too. And at dinner…”

  “Right,” I said, still feeling distracted by the image in my mind. “Not the first. But definitely the best.”

  I cringed. Seriously, Jack? “Sorry. That was a poor attempt at humor.”

  But Nola was smiling. Dangerously smiling, in fact. It was that kind of smile women used to disarm. Her head was tilted, and her cheek was rested on the back of her hand. Blue eyes sparkled up at me like I was the most charming man alive. “I like it when you’re funny. You should try it more often.”

  I could imagine a posh, British narrator crouching in a nearby bush watching us. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the moment the wild Jack Kerrigan realized he was dealing with an apex predator. Prior to this moment, he was confident in his ability to win the exchange. See how it looks like he suddenly developed indigestion? That’s how we know he’s in over his head. It’s the first sign that the female has the better of him.


  I hated how British accents seemed to give authority to even the most ridiculous things. Even imaginary voices in your own damn head.

  “You okay?” Nola asked. “You’re glaring at that bush like you want to go kick the shit out of it. If that’s the plan, just let me know so I have time to take off these heels before I join you.”

  I grinned. “No. It’s nothing. I was just thinking about something stupid.”

  After dinner, we decided to walk back to my apartment instead of catching an Uber. Neither of us exactly voiced the decision, but before I knew it, we were walking down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it was the two bottles of wine making her steps unsteady, but Nola seemed unable to stop from thudding into me and having to put her small hands on my arm to steady herself.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was the most I’ve ever been paid to go on a date with a guy.”

  I knew she was only joking. In fact, it was a quality I’d come to appreciate about Nola. She always seemed to be trying to make peace—lightening the mood and making sure nobody felt silly or uncomfortable. It was like she has O.C.D., but the only thing she was obsessive about keeping in order was the emotional balance of any space she currently occupied. Still, I felt a little slimy to think of tonight the way she’d put it.

  I had paid her to come on this date. Worse, I’d framed it as some sort of litmus test to insure I would have the self-control not to sleep with her. “I used to be dirt poor,” I said, speaking purely out of a desire to alleviate the growing guilt I felt about tonight.

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “I like to think throwing money at people is more about remembering how much it would’ve helped me than anything else.” It was past midnight, but in Manhattan that didn’t mean the streets were empty. We waited with a small group to cross an intersection while I tried to decide how much I was willing to share. “I used to work two jobs. My coaches were always ready to kill me because I’d miss practice or wind up late to games. But I was always busting my ass. I saw that in you, I guess. The idea of some asshole making me buy clothes to go to a dinner I didn’t want to go to seemed too shitty. That’s why I gave you the money. I didn’t want it to seem like I was paying you to go on the date, though.”

  She put her hand on my arm, then leaned her head against my shoulder briefly almost like a hug. “You try really hard to seem like a cold, hard asshole. But you’re actually a soft asshole deep down, aren’t you?”

  “Uh,” I said. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

  Nola shrugged in a way that seemed far sexier than I knew she could’ve possibly intended. “Can I admit something to you?”

  “Please,” I said. I’d felt a growing discomfort at how much I seemed to be blabbing about myself tonight. It was completely out of character, and I was left feeling exposed in a way. If she was going to share some new embarrassing secret about herself, it would help things feel less off balance.

  “If the point of tonight was to prove it wouldn’t be dangerous for us to be around each other, I think it might’ve had the opposite effect on me.”

  “We’ve both been drinking,” I said.

  “Just because you’re spinning a little doesn’t mean I can’t see how cute you are inside that gruff exterior.”

  I fought the urge to smile. That was all this was. She was drunk. She didn’t know what she was saying. “Let’s get you home. You can crash at my place tonight if you want.”

  Nola slumped against my arm, letting me support her as we walked. “You going to spill a vanilla milkshake on your lap when we get home and ask me to clean it off, Mr. Kerrigan? But with my tongue, this time?”

  I stared ahead as we walked. Drunk. She was just drunk.

  Mistakes. All I could see were the hundreds of little mistakes I’d made since I met Nola circling in my mind. Why had I thought it was safe to test the line with her? Why had I been so damn confident I could resist something I wanted so badly?

  Most importantly, when had I become such an idiot?

  19

  Nola

  I woke up, once again, at Jack Kerrigan’s apartment. The sweet elderly woman from down his hall who’d been watching the boys during our date was kind enough to stay the night while Jack and I slept off the wine. But Jack apparently woke bright eyed and alert, even after a night of drinking. Then again, I guessed the wine hit my small frame a lot harder than his massive, chiseled, currently dressed in my favorite guy-attire of t-shirt and gray sweatpants…

  What was I thinking about again?

  I slid and shuffled to the kitchen counter. I pushed a tangled web of red hair from my eyes, which gave me a better view of the sweatpants bulge Jack was rocking as he reached up for something in a cabinet over the stove.

  “Good morning,” Jack said.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

  He shot me a look. “How are you feeling? You crashed pretty hard last night.”

  I looked down at the button-down of his I was wearing. I shimmied my legs a little to confirm that yep, I was once again pantsless. Then again, I’d come back here in a dress, so I guess I could be forgiven. A sudden spike of panic ran through me. “Last thing I remember was collapsing on the couch. In my dress. Did you change me?”

  “You don’t remember?” Jack pushed a cup of coffee toward me. “You came into my room at three in the morning and started stripping off your clothes in my closet. I tried to make as much noise as I could, so you’d know you weren’t alone, but you told me to keep it down because your head felt like it was going to explode.

  I put my hands around the coffee mug and stared into the steaming brown liquid. Coffee cup, coffee cup, tell me… Am I really as insane as it sounds like I am right now? “Interesting,” I muttered before taking a sip. “You’re sure that was me?”

  “You’re the only red-haired midget who has made a habit of sleeping over at my apartment.”

  “How much did you see, exactly?”

  “Considering you turned on all my lights first? I saw that it was apparently lacy pink thong and bra day. Then I averted my eyes.”

  “Because you didn’t like what you saw?” I asked.

  “Because you were drunk. I didn’t want to take advantage.”

  I ran my fingertip along the rim of my mug, slowly letting my eyes drift up to meet his. “So you liked what you saw, but you felt guilty about looking?”

  I had just enough time to see Jack’s face stiffen and wonder what he was going to say before Ben and Griff emerged into the living room.

  “What’s drunk?” Ben asked.

  Griff elbowed him in the side. Both boys were messy haired with swollen, sleepy eyes.

  “Dude. Drunk is what happens to apple juice when you’re done with it.”

  Ben’s mouth formed a silent “O” of understanding.

  Jack was quickly moving toward the bedroom. Almost too quickly.

  “You never answered my question,” I said, stopping him just before he fled.

  “Because I think we’d both know I was lying if I tried. And I don’t think the truth would be wise to put out in the open.” And just like that, he pulled the bedroom door closed behind himself.

  I rested my chin on my hands as the boys took seats next to me at the counter.

  Ben put a small hand on my arm and gave me a wise look beyond his years. “Give him time. He’ll come around.”

  I tilted my head. “What did you just say?”

  Griff was grinning ear to ear. “I taught him that.”

  Ben nodded, but his little hand was still on me. “Sometimes a hoe just gotta be a hoe.”

  I glared at Griff, who looked like he was considering running. “Let me guess. You taught him that, too?”

  Ben looked up curiously at me. “Did I say something bad?”

  20

  Nola

  I liked to think I was the sort of person who minded her own business. As it happened, I was sitting on a bench in Central Park while Ben
and Griff played doing exactly that. I had one earbud in and was tapping my foot to an oldie but a goodie by The Shins. That was when gold curls, full lips, perfectly applied makeup, and an expensive outfit eclipsed my view of the playground.

  I looked up at the woman and gave that smile you might give to someone you kinda sorta recognized in passing—lower lip pressed up and tight against the teeth with a bobbing nod of the head.

  She just waited with her hands on her hips.

  I pulled the earbud out of my ear and finally recognized her. Ally Callaway. The country singer. The one who was Ben Kerrigan’s biological mother.

  “Oh,” I choked. “Hi.”

  “Yeah,” she said sweetly. “Hi.” She sat down beside me on the bench with a jingle of jewelry, bags, and a puff of expensive smelling perfume. “You’re the nanny, right?”

  “My friends call me Nola.”

  She showed no sign of catching the attitude I was lobbing her way like a grenade. All she did was keep wearing that sweet smile. “Okay, well I have a little favor to ask. Jack hasn’t been returning my calls, and I really need to talk to him. What would it cost to get you to pass a message along to him?”

  On the surface, I knew there was nothing too wrong with the conversation so far. Except I had the distinctive sense of looking at a seemingly beautiful strawberry I knew would be bitter and black on the inside if I took a bite. I also decided if Jack wasn’t returning her calls, I wanted to hear his reason before I went behind his back.

  “I’d feel better if I spoke to Jack before I agreed to pass along some kind of message. Maybe you can leave me your number and I’ll get back to you.”

  She scoffed and pulled out a little red crocodile-skinned checkbook and flipped it open. She uncapped a heavy looking gold-gilded pen and poised it over the empty rectangle on the check. “How much?”

  “You know,” I said. I was clenching my teeth now. That was a bad sign. “I think I’d feel better if I talked to Jack first.”