Chapter 15
Fifteen
DEAN
What the fuck is she wearing?
I’ve never seen Clover in anything remotely that revealing, not even at the party at Charlotte’s.
Not even up on stage at the bar where she plays bass on Saturday nights. I’m not too proud to admit that I went searching for footage of her band on YouTube, and that I’ve watched her sets way too many times.
She’s talented as fuck.
And I’m obsessed as fuck, so sue me.
But I’m also respectful, unlike the frat boys drooling all over her ass.
She’s swapped the cozy oversized sweatshirt she wore to the game for one of the cropped jerseys from the Voodoo merch stand, the ones the sorority girls are apparently going crazy for.
I’ve heard the younger players celebrating how much easier it is to find a hockey-loving woman at the clubs on Bourbon Street these days.
All they have to do is scan the room for a girl in a Voodoo crop top.
Though crop top is too generous a word. That top is more than cropped. It’s been hacked at, massacred by a pair of over-eager scissors until it reveals an obscene amount of skin.
Or maybe it just looks that way on Clover because she’s so tall, but I swear to fuck, I’ve never seen that much belly on display anywhere but the beach.
That’s at least six inches of skin. Seven. Maybe more.
And yes, every other part of her is covered, and her jeans are still the same pair she was wearing before.
But I didn’t realize how tight they were when they were covered by a pink sweatshirt down to her hips.
Now, the way they cling to every curve is abundantly clear, and her hair is all wild and fluffed, and she’s wearing a bright red lipstick that makes it impossible not to look at her lips, and I am… caught up.
I literally can’t look away.
Neither can the crowd of pimply frat boy shitheads swarming her like fruit flies around an especially delicious peach…
She straightens up after her shot, laughing at whatever Reed, the rookie, just said to her on the other side of the table.
Reed, who I know has a girlfriend, but who is still flirting like it’s his second full-time job.
Reed, who is just a year younger than Clover, and likely understands what it’s like to be Gen Z, while I…
do not. I’m a millennial, a different species from these kids who manage their social media personas like they were born online.
Because they kind of were, I guess.
There’s not just an age gap between Clover and me; there’s a lived experience gap, one that goes beyond the years we’ve been on earth. We’re from two different worlds, and she’s young and single and can flirt with whoever she wants. Show as much skin as she wants. Do whatever she wants.
As long as she’s not on the clock, watching my children, then it’s none of my business.
None of my business.
Fuck.
I fucking hate that it’s none of my business.
With way more effort than it should take a grown man to control his own eyeballs, I drag my focus from the pool tables and head downstairs to get my kids.
The pizza will be here any minute. I need to get them fed and back to having fun, then concentrate on having some fun myself. That’s what tonight is about. Not dwelling on the star-crossed situation with my nanny.
I’m not Romeo to her Juliet, anyway.
I’m probably closer to being Romeo’s dad. They had kids young back then, and in the play, Romeo was only fifteen or sixteen. If I’d married at twenty, I could have an almost sixteen-year-old by now.
With that sobering—and disturbing—thought in mind, I wrangle Bella and Ava into the family restroom to wash their hands and arrive back at the group table just as the food lands.
We dig in, the girls scarfing down two slices of pizza and a piece of garlic bread each as they tell me about the epic game of pretend going down in the play structure.
They’re enchanted mermaids with magical powers, Mimi is a warrior elf sworn to protect them on their quest, and several little boys are playing goblins, determined to keep them from reaching the slide and the land of treasure and happiness at the bottom.
I shake my head. “Boys. Why do they always have to cause trouble?”
“I know! So much trouble!” Ava agrees with a passion that makes me laugh. “These boys are sassy, too. They all said bad words at least once.”
Bella giggles. “I think they’re funny. I like boys.”
I huff, refusing to think too deeply about what lies ahead of me as a girl dad. Not tonight, anyway. I already have enough on my plate pretending not to notice that Clover has moved on from flirting at the pool tables to flirting on the dance floor.
I’m having a good time.
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.
Which means it’s time for me to leave.
I’ve had enough “fun,” the girls are already up past their bedtime, and I’m driving.
A second beer probably wasn’t a good idea anyway.
I’m a big man, and can easily have two beers in a few hours without going over the legal limit, but when I’m out with the kids, I usually stick to a one-drink rule.
Their safety comes first, and part of keeping them “safe” is ensuring I don’t go Cro-Magnon on their nanny’s new boy toy on the dance floor and scare her away.