Page 2 of The Nanny Game Plan
“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 Idothink 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? Willingmyself to play it slightly more cool, I add. “I heard you playing. You’ve got skills, Flamingo Pajamas.”
