It’s why I finally agreed to pull back a bit. I couldn’t take care of anyone if I didn’t take care of myself first.
Now I’m quoting my doctor.
“A nanny wrangler?” My neighbor drags me from my thoughts with a sexy furrow between his brows that tells me he’s trying to picture it as he catalogues my wrinkled pants and sweatshirt ensemble. I know I’m a mess. My hair is a curly mop, my tongue is orange and I’m assuming I have pasta sauce on my chin and/or some section of my clothing. I refuse to check while he’s watching me.
I don’t look like a nanny or a wrangler at the moment. I doubt I look employed.
Nanny throws everyone. The word brings to mind bitter old women with no children of their own or, on the other end of that horseshoe, the nubile homewrecker who’ll lead Daddy astray. Both the gothic and mid-life crisis stereotypes make my job harder than it has to be, since even in a suit I don’t conform to norms.
He gets points for not laughing. Most men think I’m joking when they find out what I do, but he’s actually trying to take it in.
I check to see if smoke is coming out of his ears, only to freeze at what his gaze has honed in on. The railing, the dark, even my sweatshirt isn’t offering enough protection to hide the noticeable bulge I’m sporting in his vicinity.
Is he staring at my dick?
All my brothers have horror stories of classroom boners that got everyone’s attention. They thought it was a laugh, but at the time I couldn’t think of a more terrifying situation. Especially if it had happened in my AP science class, because Mr. Nigel was sex—
“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra bottle of that, would you?”
I nearly drop the one in my hand when he follows the question with a sensual lick of his lips. “Oh, a soda. Right. Sure.”
He’s thirsty.
For a drink, lust monkey. Keep it in your pants.
Because he was looking at the bottle near my dick. Not my actual… Fuck, am I relieved or insulted?
I’m trying to analyze his behavior as I leave the balcony and walk into the kitchen in a daze. After a phone call like the one he had, I’d be asking for a beer or something stronger. I’d want to distract myself with a bromantic procedural or shout at some dragons, aka therapeutic gaming.
I definitely wouldn’t be sharing precious bottles of orange-flavored joy with the odd duck next door. I’d be pissed at that guy and wondering why he was listening in on my calls with food on his chin and a pipe in his pants. Who did he think he was, anyway?
What was I talking about?
Oh right. Why is he talking to me?
Maybe he’s lonely.
Maybe he’s more work than you need right now, I correct myself as I wipe my chin, which I’m relieved to report is sauce-free. He’s going through some kind of family drama, and I’m supposed to be avoiding stressful things.
I snag one of the small juggling balls I left on the counter, and the suede beneath my fingers instantly soothes me. What I should do is hand over the drink as an apology for eavesdropping, make my excuses and get back to work. I have things to do before tomorrow and he’s too…too.
That makes sense.
Excuse me for being unclear. I’m busy being mad at a universe that would give me a neighbor who managed to awaken my libido from its hundred-year hibernation, and sings to his child voluntarily, but is still straight.
Unfair as it is, the facts don’t lie.
Not only am I lusting after him, but he has a daughter. Unless he’s mated to one of those miracles of erotic gay fiction—the male werewolf who can carry a baby to term—his daughter has to have a mother.
Ipso Facto Hetero.
Why did I ever let myself read that?
JD dared me to, and I hate him for it. I mean, I love gay romance, I’m into the idea of werewolves and I’m a fan of the miracle of birth. All of those facts are separately true. But knowing gay werewolf pregnancy is a thing that’s out there is nearly tied with Jordan Peele movies on the list of Scary Shit I’ll Never Get Out of My Head.
Tangent aside, I’m standing firm on my idea to end this meet-cute posthaste. I drop the ball, take a bottle in each hand and ready my excuses as I head outside.
“Here you—Oh fuck.”
I nearly run into his chest and make a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a squeak when I realize he’s hopped both railings along with the two-foot gap between our balconies and is a lot closer than I expected.
He hopped over. To my balcony.
And he’s smiling like that wasn’t weird or a bad idea at all.