Chapter 5
Five
CLOVER
The troll rebellion is over.
For now…
But if there’s one thing I know about trolls, it’s that they’re gluttons for punishment.
It’s almost as if they enjoy a semiannual ass-beating from the Alrgarvian Aligned Forces.
Today’s victory is simply a reprieve from the fight to keep the trolls out of our crops, chicken coops, and legendary croissant shops.
Still, it’s a victory I intend to enjoy with a flask of ale and a solid ten hours of sleep. The rest of the force will be drinking and dancing in the fields around our base until the sun comes up, but as a junior commander, I must hold myself to higher standards of decorum.
It’s no hardship, really. I don’t enjoy drinking cheap whiskey until I’m dizzy, vomiting into tick-filled grass, or falling into bed stinking of campfire smoke and fried pig skin.
I’m allergic to campfire smoke.
And cheap whiskey.
And fun.
I’m not allergic to fun, but the other junior commanders think so. They happily ignore the Decorum Manifest—at least, once they’re outside the kingdom gates—but none of them have my particular weakness.
If I stay out late to drink and dance, I know what will happen.
What always happens…
My blood will heat, my defenses will flag, and, sooner or later, I’ll find myself at Commander Kate’s quarters, sneaking between the tent flaps while his guard’s back is turned, proving his security force needs an overhaul.
And proving I have less self-restraint than a troll pillaging an Algarvian pastry shop on a Sunday morning…
But in my defense, Commander Dean Kate isn’t just any military man with a storied career.
He’s the bravest, strongest, most noble commander in our force.
He’s the man who developed the pit trap-and-release method of troll containment that transformed our once bloody missions into something more humane.
He led the charge to domesticate the giant crows who carry us into battle with our more vicious enemies to the north and lobbied the royal family to create retirement villages for elderly soldiers.
He’s also built like one of the old gods, with shoulders broad enough to block the sun, a chest chiseled from granite, and a cock so long and thick that a girl begins to understand why human women will tumble a troll, now and then.
Yes, trolls are green and slimy, but every one of them is hung like Commander Kate. And rumor has it, troll men know what to do with those chubby green lizards between their legs…
The commander’s “lizard” is also highly skilled, and not the slightest bit green or slimy. If he weren’t my superior, he would be the perfect man.
And just like that, as if the architects of the cosmos are eavesdropping on my thoughts, I duck into my tent and come face-to-face with Commander Kate.
Sitting on the edge of my bed…
Waiting.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I protest, at the same moment he says, “I know I shouldn’t be here.”
We exhale ragged laughs.
Twin laughs.
Like the twin flames that burn in our hearts.
And loins…
“Toss it all,” I say, flinging my flask to the ground. “I don’t care if—”
His mouth covers mine, and we fall onto my furs in a tangle of eager limbs, tearing at each other’s armor.
My leather vest hits the ground, and my linen shirt is about to follow it, when—
My alarm screams from the nightstand.
I groan. Wince. Then groan again as the volume kicks up, the way I programmed it to do, so I wouldn’t loll about in bed being depressed until noon. Again.
I slap at it, miss it, slap again, and finally, mercifully, the air falls quiet.
I creak my eyes open, peeking at the clock.
10:01 AM on a Sunday in New Orleans, not the Algarvian Base Camp.
My bedroom, not a command tent. No furs, no Commander Kate, just my flamingo pajamas, and an ache between my legs so intense it borders on pathological.
All because Dean drove home to be a good dad, who doesn’t bang his teammates’ “little sisters,” and I came upstairs to mourn the loss of a steamy night, I’d been so certain was a sure thing.
But it wasn’t a sure thing.
Sob.
And yes, I came on Dean’s hand, but that only made me want the real thing even more. To want it so much that my brain decided to whip up some kinky troll penis dreams featuring Dean as my foxy commander.
I have warrior princess dreams all the time—a hazard of reading too many fantasy novels—but they’ve never had troll penis in them before. Or much man penis, to be honest. My dreams are usually G-rated.
But not this morning.
If only I hadn’t woken up before Dean spanked me while he fucked me hard from behind. If only he’d finished the job in my dream, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling so unfinished right now.
I press my thighs together, but that only makes the ache between them even worse.
Soon, my clit is pulsing out an S.O.S., while my vagina gently weeps into my cotton panties.
It suggests, in a tearful voice, that I should write a song about it, a la The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” but about a tortured, miserable vagina that no one loves enough to touch. Not even the woman it belongs to…
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Fine.”
I slip my hand beneath my waistband, close my eyes, and try to appease my weepy puss. I know my body. I know exactly what angle, what pressure, what rhythm gets me there in under three minutes. I've been doing this since I was a teenager. It’s muscle memory at this point.
But my fingers aren’t his fingers. They’re not big enough, and they don’t come attached to a man who’s sexy and warm and smells like heaven.
I rub and circle, but every time I get close, the wave wimps out, refusing to break.
Not without something more serious than my hand, anyway, and my vibrator is all the way across the room in a bathroom drawer, and I’m too annoyed to come now, anyway.
I exhale a frustrated breath and glare up at the ceiling.
This is all Dean’s fault. He ruined my perfectly functional solo sex life by giving me a taste of the real thing. One bright, beautiful taste, only to turn tail and run away in his stupid truck with his stupid morals to do stupid things like take care of his kids during a snowstorm.
Fine, none of that is stupid, but it feels like such a waste.
“We could have made magic together, Nutasha,” I whisper, pulling my stuffed squirrel into my arms.
There, there, love. Don’t fret yourself. I’m here. I’m always here, Nutasha P. Bettersquirrel says in her cozy English accent.
In my head, she sounds like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast, the one I used to wish was my mom when I was a kid.
The thought reminds me of Karen’s fake Irish accent.
Of how far people will go to make their dreams come true.
And of my final meeting for the nanny gig in just a few short hours…
It’s not my “dream” to be a live-in childcare provider, but the Hendersons seem like a great couple, and I’m excited for my fresh start.
I’ve never been a full-time nanny before, but I have loads of daycare experience.
I’m great with kids, and the Hendersons are jazzed for me to teach Gus how to read sheet music.
He’s only five, but when it comes to a musical education, it’s never too early to start.
Which reminds me…
I push off the covers, dragging myself out of bed to toss my iPad into my “moving to the Hendersons” suitcase before I forget. I have a program on there that makes it easy to learn the different chords.
Luckily, I don’t have to pack all my stuff yet—Beatrice isn’t planning to rent my room out again, and she and Blue won’t need it for the baby for several months.
Charlie will sleep in a bassinet in their room to start—but I’ve done my best to get things ready to move or store, anyway.
I don’t have that much, and I haven’t had much to do lately.
Once it became clear that I couldn’t get around the diner as well as I used to, my hours kept getting cut until, by the end, there was almost nothing left, and a girl can’t live on one or two lunch shifts a week.
This nanny opportunity came along at the perfect time.
I’m so grateful that Charlotte, Beatrice’s sister-in-law, thought of me when she heard a local agency was looking for nannies.
I’m so grateful that Tasha, my new boss, didn’t blink an eye at the fact that I don’t have any recent childcare experience since I left my daycare gig in Missouri.
I am grateful. I am.
Frustrated and horny and crankier about it than usual, but grateful.
After rubbing some tiger balm into my leg—it always aches in the morning—I head out to tidy the apartment.
I want the place spotless when Beatrice and Blue walk through the door with newborn Charlie.
There’s still no update from them on my cell, but hopefully everything went smoothly, and they simply forgot to text before they passed out with exhaustion.
Or I guess Beatrice could still be in labor…
I don’t have firsthand experience with birth, but I know it can go on for a long time in some cases.
Sending up a silent wish for Beatrice to be resting comfortably by now, not suffering and cursing Blue’s giant-baby-creating DNA, I go to fetch coffee.
Once I’m properly caffeinated and full of day-old French toast, I start to work in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters, emptying the dish rack, and wiping down the coffee maker I’ve been abusing lately.
But hell, caffeine is my friend, and I swear it makes the pain better.
Outside the window, the snow from last night has started to melt, and the street glistens under a gray sky.
I reach for my phone to take a picture, when a text from Blue pops up as I’m opening the app—Hey!
Sorry, I forgot to text earlier. Things got crazy at the end, but Charlie is here, and she’s perfect.
Beatrice is, too. She’s feeling great, had a nap, then a big breakfast before she went back to sleep a few minutes ago.
I grin and shoot back, Yay! Oh, I’m so glad to hear that! Congrats, Dad! Tell Beatrice congrats, too, when she wakes up. I need pictures!
Gotcha, he replies, followed by a smiling emoji.
Beatrice has some good ones. I’ll have her send them.
It looks like they’re planning to discharge us tomorrow afternoon.
The hospital likes to keep moms for forty-eight hours, so, we won’t be home until after you leave for your first day at the new job. Good luck, okay? We’re rooting for you.
Touched, I send over a heart and prayer hands. Aw, thank you. I’m rooting for you guys, too. And I’ll leave the house spic-and-span. You won’t have to worry about anything but getting settled in with the baby.
Blue sends a thumbs-up emoji. Thanks. We’ll miss you. Be sure to check in and let us know how everything is going.
I promise I will, congratulate him again, and get back to cleaning.
Once I’m done, I shower, diffuse my curls, and change into jeans and loose, black turtleneck—boring clothing, I hope says “I’m tidy, but not afraid to get dirty with your kiddo at the park.
” Then, I grab a cheese stick and munch it on my way to the bus stop, deciding it qualifies as lunch and will free me to have a second coffee and dessert at the café with the Hendersons.
It’s my first time meeting my new bosses in person, but surprisingly, I’m not nervous. We’ve chatted on Zoom several times during their cross-country move to New Orleans, including once with their son, Gus.
I had him in giggles five minutes in, and I know we’re going to be great friends. He’s a precious pumpkin with big brown eyes and a bowl cut, who loves drumming, blocks, and singing as loud as he can. And he can’t wait to learn more about music with his real-life “Rock Star Nanny.”
I’m not a rock star, not even close, but I’d be lying if I said Gus didn’t win me over with the nickname. He’s a cool little dude.
Marta and Stanley seem nice, too. A little odd, maybe—Stanley squints at the laptop like he’s never seen a computer, and Marta asked if I was “committed to Gus’s holistic food journey” in a way that suggested feeding my charge won’t be easy—but nice.
They just moved into their New Orleans place last week, a few days before they both start demanding jobs.
That’s why they wanted to meet today. This way, they can hand over the keys and go over Gus’s schedule before they’re swept up in the “first day” chaos. Thankfully, Gus doesn’t start kindergarten for another week, so we’ll have time to settle in before adding to our daily schedule.
And I’ll have time to practice driving the Hendersons’ minivan, which they insisted should be “my car” while caring for Gus.
I’ve never driven anything that large—and honestly don’t see why I need a minivan for one small boy—but I’m not about to argue about being given a car.
Since Mr. Higgins, my Honda Civic, went to the big junkyard in the sky last October, I’ve been at the mercy of the erratic New Orleans bus system, which, frankly, can go suck a troll penis.
My cheeks heat as I wave to Clark, our doorman, and step out into the chilly winter morning.
Must stop thinking about troll penis.
And Dean penis.
And Dean.
The window for fun, games, and frolicking with gorgeous men has passed. Now’s the time to focus on my fresh start and being a wholesome, reliable nanny, without a steamy thought in her head.
No one likes a steamy nanny.
Well, maybe pervy dads do, but I’m not that kind of girl, and the thought of Stanley being romantic makes me want to throw up in my mouth.
Note to self: Add “Stanley trying to be sexy” to the list of things we’re not thinking about.
With my brain firmly—mostly—under wraps, I hurry down the street, determined to seize the day.