Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I really am.
But I’m also a little sad when the girls insist that they don’t want to play Skee-Ball or the other carnival games. They’re too eager to get back to the playground and their new friends.
“We’ll have to get them all together for a playdate,” Elly says, rocking a dead-to-the-world-and-snoring Sophia in her arms as we watch the kids race down to the ground floor. “They play so well together.”
I nod. “For sure. The girls would love that. They think Mimi’s the coolest.”
Elly grins. “I think so, too. Though I might be a tiny bit biased.” She nods toward the bar. “Why don’t you go have another beer and hang out with the guys? I can watch the kiddos. It’s no problem.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not your job. I would never ask you to—”
“Of course, you wouldn’t ask,” Elly cuts in. “That’s why I’m offering. It’s your special night. You should be able to have fun and take your eyes off the kids for a while. And I’m watching Mimi already, so it’s no problem.” She shrugs before casting a pointed glance at her midsection. “And it’s not like I can have a beer. Not for another six months, anyway.”
My brows lift as I connect the dots. “Oh, yeah? Again?” I realize how that sounded and scramble to recover. “I mean, congratulations, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she breaks in with a laugh. “Grammercy and I know we’re ridiculous. We just love kids. And we both want a big family, so…” She glances back at her husband with a warm smile, grinning as he blows her a kiss. Turning back to me, she adds, “Go, have a beer with him, and enjoy the celebration. He’s been taking point with Mimi and Sophia so much lately. I made him promise to let me handle kid duty tonight so he could relax.”
“Okay. Thanks,” I say, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “And congrats again. So happy for you two.”
She beams. “Thanks.”
I head for the bar with every intention of settling in next to Grammercy and drinking a beer like a normal adult at a normal celebration, but I only make it four steps before my eyes betray me, tracking up to the dance floor without my permission, and…there she is.
Clover has her cane in one hand, the rubber tip braced on the floor as she moves to the music in a way that proves she was gifted with a unique sense of rhythm.
A unique and sexy as fuck sense of rhythm…
Her curls bounce as her hips swivel in loose circles to an absolutely filthy Prince song. To be fair, most Prince songs are filthy, but seeing a roomful of people grinding to “Little Red Corvette” drives home the “this song is about fucking” thing in a new way. It is literally impossible to watch Clover dance to this song and not think about sex.
About the fact that she looks like she enjoys sex.
About the way she might move if she were on top, calling the shots.
About how many years of my life I would sacrifice to be the one underneath her while she calls them…
But I’m not the guy with his hand on her hip.
I don’t know who the hell that guy is, only that he’s no one I know, which is a blessing. I’m not sure what I would have done if it were a Voodoo player pawing my nanny on the dance floor, but likely nothing good.
After all, I don’t really have a leg to stand on. The “no dating other players’ family members” thing is an unspoken code, not anything enforceable, and Clover is Blue’s surrogate little sister, not related by blood. And as far as I know, there aren’t any rules about dating another player’s nanny.
But there should be.
There really fucking should be…
As I run my gaze over the beefy guy in the too-tight polo, I decide no one—player or civilian—should be able to date a nanny without a background check. And a toxicology screening.
There’s no way that chode’s chest got that big without dabbling in steroids, and steroids make men aggressive and violent. Not to mention often unable to perform in an intimate setting.
The thought of this creep’s tiny, roid-shriveled balls and increased chances of male pattern baldness give me comfort as he slides in behind Clover, one hand on her hip and the other creeping up her ribs as he shouts into her ear. She glances back, a frown pinching her brows, but doesn’t pull away as his palm skims down to her waist and back up again, getting way too close to her breasts for comfort.
My comfort, anyway.
Clover doesn’t seem bothered.
She just keeps dancing.
And he keeps dancing.
And my jaw clenches so hard there’s a chance I’ll crack a molar if I’m forced to watch much more of this. I already know there’s no way I can pull off sitting at the bar with my back turned to the repulsive mating ritual unfolding here.