The Nanny Game Plan (That Steamy Hockey Romance #5)

Chapter 1

One

DEAN WITHERSPOON KATE

A responsible, devoted single dad

on the verge of making some

risky (and racy) decisions…

My mother is a force of nature.

When Hurricane Eliza blows onshore, you have two choices—get on board with whatever she has planned, or get the hell out of her way. When she blew in two months ago to help me through the most hellish time of my life, I was relieved.

Now, I do my best to get out of the kitchen before she spots me by the freezer, hunting for ice cream when I’m supposed to be out “doing grown-up shit.”

“Dean Witherspoon Kate, what are you still doing in this house?” she demands, flicking on the overhead light.

I wince, cringing in the sudden glare. “Deciding that eating ice cream and watching The Naked Gun makes me feel more like a grown-up than going to a party?”

“Nope! Out. Now.” She points to the door, snapping her fingers twice before pointing again. “This instant.”

I motion to my grungy brown sweater and sweatpants. “I’m not even dressed!”

“You’re a man, it’ll take you two minutes. Jeans. Black sweater. Run a little gel through your hair, and you’re out the door by eleven. You’ll pull up right when the fun is starting.”

“How do you know when the fun starts? When’s the last time you went to a party, Ms. Workaholic?” I ask, dancing away as she comes at me with the magazine in her hand, swatting in the general direction of my ass. “Okay! Fine, I’ll go. I’ll go.”

“Don’t just go. Go, and have a good time,” she says. “I’m old. I’ve had my share of parties, thank you very much. I was snorting cocaine off your dad’s bald head when you were just a twinkle in his balls.”

“Mom!” I shoot a pointed glance toward the stairs, where the kids are asleep. “What if the girls heard you saying shit like that?”

She rolls her tired blue eyes. “Oh, please. Those sweet babies have no idea what cocaine is. And when they’re old enough, I’ll tell them what it is and why it’s a bad idea.

” She sighs. “Nearly as bad as marrying a man twenty years your senior, who drops dead of a heart attack while cheating on you with a girl even younger than you are.”

I close my eyes, muttering beneath my breath, “I liked it better when you were still hiding your checkered past.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you turned thirty-five,” she says, parking a hand between my shoulders and pushing me toward my room.

“Thirty-five is old enough to handle an adult conversation. And to handle being a single dad and learning to live again. Frederica would want you to be happy again, son.” She pauses in front of my door, patting my back with a firm one-two.

“She wanted that before she was dead. I bet she wants it even more now that she knows how time flies.”

I sigh, but don’t argue or ask her to take the bluntness down a notch.

My mother doesn’t do pretty lies or even pretty truths. She lays the facts out as she sees them, stripped down and naked in the harsh light of the Eliza sun.

I’m sure she’d be gentler with me if my ex and I hadn’t been out of love for a long time before Frederica died in that plane crash. Or if she hadn’t died on the way to her honeymoon with another man.

As things stand…

Well, I’m lucky my mother’s been as patient with my moping and wallowing as she’s been thus far.

But I can’t help it. I wasn’t in love with Frederica anymore, no, but she was someone I loved for a long time. More importantly, she was the person my girls loved most in the entire world.

I don’t know how I’m ever going to love Ava and Bella enough to make up for that kind of loss.

The thought keeps me up at night, worrying, stewing, researching new therapists because I’m pretty sure the one they’re working with now isn’t helping them process anything except how much they like playing with the dolls and trains in her office.

Last night, I was up until nearly one in the morning looking at nanny agencies.

I have a part-time service lined up for the next month, but I need long-term.

I can’t pull off an NHL career and being a full-time single dad without help, and Mom has to go home.

She’s already been here for almost eight weeks.

If she stays remote much longer, her clients will mutiny.

Mom’s the best divorce lawyer in our hometown.

She has half a dozen court dates coming up in February alone and has to get on that flight back to Minnesota on Monday. No more delays.

I’m dreading her leaving nearly as much as I’m dreading this party…

Though—bright side—once she’s gone, there won’t be anyone around to shove me out the front door with shouted orders to “cut loose a little, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t raise you to be a fun-hating prude.”

“Little wins,” I mutter as I start the truck.

Sometimes you have to be grateful for little wins, especially when that’s all the universe seems to be giving you.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into one of the posher neighborhoods in old New Orleans, where the party at Nix’s does indeed seem to be just “getting to the fun part.” The music from the backyard is loud, but the laughter is louder, which seems a little strange—this is a party for a musician, after all—but when I circle to the front of the house, it’s clear why the dance music is blasting at a respectable level.

They’ve got a live band on the front porch, too. I’m no expert, but it sounds like a couple of guitars and a bass, freestyling something bluesy.

It’s cool. Way cooler than the usual NHL soiree, filled with pro athletes posturing for puck bunnies and various other hangers-on.

I’m into it, and feeling happier about being out of the house, even before I start up the porch steps and get my first look at the “band”—a young guy with dreads on guitar, an older guy in a flannel coat on another guitar, and a ridiculously beautiful girl with brown curls and a mouth even a jock like me could write poetry about playing the hell out of the bass.

Holy shit.

It’s her…

Flamingo Pajamas, aka Clover. But in my head when I think of her—and I do think of her, way more than I should—she’s always Flamingo Pajamas.

She was so fucking cute in those bright pink PJs last October, stranded at the end of my neighbor’s driveway in a crooked tiara and twin casts with doodles covering every inch of plaster.

Scooping her out of her broken wheelchair and carrying her into Cristina’s house was the highlight of my autumn.

I’d spent most of the Fall moping around my new bachelor pad by myself, mourning the fact that I only got to see my kids a couple of days a week since the divorce.

That was back when my ex had primary physical custody, back when she was planning her wedding, before she got on that plane to Tahiti, and all our lives changed forever.

Life can change so fucking fast.

It’s terrifying, but it can also be inspiring. Look at Clover. Change has been good to her. The casts are gone, and watching her play, you’d never believe that arm was encased in plaster past her elbow not long ago.

I’m so glad she’s doing better.

It’s great to see her healthy and smiling and…wearing that sexy white sweater with the deep V in the front.

Whoa, down boy, a voice in my head warns. She’s probably got a boyfriend. And even if she doesn’t, you’re in no place to think about dating. You barely manage to shower daily and keep the pantry stocked with food the girls will eat. You’re not ready for any more adulting.

The inner voice is right. So right, that I’m about to head inside, away from the porch and the hottest bass player the world has ever known, when a shout rises above the party noise, “She’s having the baby! Out of the way, people, we have to get this woman to the hospital!”

Elly, Grammercy’s wife, bursts through the front door a beat later. I barely have time to jump to the side before she’s past me, shooing people out of the way, blazing a path. My friend, Blue, is right behind her, his arm around his very pregnant girlfriend.

“Good luck!” I call out, joining the crowd of well-wishers. “And congratulations!”

“Do you need me to go home and get your bag, Bea?” a voice calls from behind me.

It’s her, I know it before I turn around.

Flamingo Pajama’s husky voice is nearly as sexy as her bass playing.

“No, we brought it with us, just in case!” Beatrice calls back, “But thank you! Love you!”

“Love you, too.” I turn to see Clover setting her bass aside as she rises from the couch.

As she lifts an arm to wave, her leg buckles suddenly beneath her.

I’m still a few feet away, but I don’t hesitate. I dive for her, the way I do when the girls are about to faceplant at the playground. I don’t always get to them in time, but I have a fifty-percent success rate.

Tonight, it looks like the coin flip is on my side. I swoop in at the last second, wrapping an arm around Clover’s waist and pulling her against me before she can tumble into the table between the couches.

Her breath rushes out as her palms come to my chest, and I steady us both with a hand on her hip.

The hand on her hip is necessary. It really is.

It becomes less necessary after she gets her legs underneath her, but I’m too distracted by the delighted smile spreading across her face to move it.

“Hey! Next Door Neighbor Guy!” Her eyes dance as she adds, “What are you doing here?”

“Saving bassists in distress, I guess,” I say, cringing at how fucking cheesy I sound. Have I ever flirted before? Ever? Willing myself to play it slightly more cool, I add. “I heard you playing. You’ve got skills, Flamingo Pajamas.”

Her smile widens. “Thanks. And thanks for the save. Again.”

“Anytime,” I murmur, my voice huskier than it should be.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to release her and take a step back.

“You okay, Clover?” the guy with the dreads asks, shooting me a sideways glance.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Zee,” she says, fetching a cane leaning against the couch cushions before moving past me. “Tell your brother thanks for letting me borrow his bass. This was fun.”

“No worries,” he says. “Catch you with the band next week? You filling in on Saturday?”

“Maybe. Depends on my new job. I’m not clear on my hours yet, but I’ll let you know.” She nods for me to follow her. “Come on.”

I blink, but don’t hesitate to trail her down the steps. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “but we can’t stay here. Five dollars says Charlotte is shutting the party down as we speak.”

Before I can reply, Charlotte sticks her head out the front door, calling, “Sorry, guys, I’m gonna have to call it an early night. I have to wrap things up here and get to the hospital.”

Clover grins at me over her shoulder as she starts across the grass. “Told ya. Now you owe me five bucks.”

I arch a brow, even more charmed than I was the first time we met. “I don’t remember taking that bet.”

She shrugs. “Not sure it matters. What matters is, where can you buy me a drink for five dollars that isn’t too far from here?

I promised Beatrice I wouldn’t join the crowd at the hospital, but there’s no way I’m sleeping until I know that giant baby is out of her and everything’s okay.

” At the edge of the sidewalk, she adds, “She’s my roommate.

But more like a sister, you know? So…where to? ”

She looks up at me expectantly.

Thankfully, my weary brain finally wakes the fuck up and grabs the flirting baton she’s extended my way.

“McLeary’s Pub,” I say. “Obviously. Open until two, ice cold drafts, the best stale buttered popcorn in the city, and right around the corner.”

Clover makes a happy sound that I also like far more than I should. “Yum, love me some stale popcorn. Let’s do it.”

I nod. “My truck’s at the end of the block.”

“That’s good,” she says, smiling as she falls in beside me. “I still haven’t saved up enough for another car and rode here with Bea’s mom.”

“Then, you’ll have to let me drive you home, too. That way you won’t have to worry about finding a cab.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “I’m Clover, by the way. In case you forgot, Dean.”

“I didn’t, Clover,” I say, holding her gaze a beat too long. “Not for a second.”

And that’s how it starts, a night I’ll look back on again and again in the weeks to come and wonder what the fuck I was thinking.

All the clues were there, all the signs.

I really should have known better.

But even if I had…

Well, I’m not sure it would have made a difference.

Some things—like beautiful women with trouble in their eyes—are impossible to resist. Even when you know they’re completely off-limits.