Page 50 of The Nanny Game Plan
But then, everyone loves a tragic drama with their hot older guy, right?
Everyone except me.
“Poor baby,” Dawn says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “He definitely needs someone to kiss it and make it all better.”
“And we all know how much you love to kiss it, you slut,” the clogged girl says, earning a shriek of laughter from the others as their heels click in reverse. “That poor man won’t know what hit him.”
The door swings shut behind them, and silence descends once more.
I’m left sitting on the toilet with my sensible nanny jeans around my ankles, bunched right beneath my equally sensible peach cotton briefs, wondering why the hell I thought jeans and a pink Voodoo team sweatshirt were acceptable attire for Dean’s 1,100thgame.
I should have known there would be a party after. A party, where I would have the chance to mingle and flirt and do the same things those girls are planning to do. And no, I can’t flirt with Dean or any of the other guys on the team, but there will be other people out tonight. Packy’s leans family-friendly, but plenty of adults go there to drink and play video games.
And bowl, maybe? I think they have a bowling alley in the basement.
I haven’t been to Packy’s since my second week in New Orleans, when a bunch of us from the diner went there on a Sunday afternoon to blow off steam. It wasn’t my scene, but itwasa scene, and there were definitely other single people around.
I could have been out on the field with those girls, shooting my shot in a miniskirt, choosing dick over despair. It’s honestly probably the smartest thing I could do for my mental health! Isn’t there a song about how the best way to get over one guy is to getunderanother?
If only the thought of gettingunderanyone but Dean didn’t make me want to throw up in my mouth.
I wipe, flush, and wash my hands, cursing my stupid heart and stupider vagina the entire time. Then, I head back to the family area, still not sure what to do.
Should I fake a headache and make a run for it?
Sneak out the side door and text my apologies to Dean and the girls from the bus? Buy one of those crop top Voodoo jerseys they were selling at the merch stand on the way in, resuscitate my curls with spray from my purse, slap on some lipstick, and pretend I’m a normal twenty-something for the night?
I don’t know.
But I don’t head for the exit.
I keep walking, back down the hall to the room where that Zaddy Dawn has her eye on is waiting to drive me across town.
Fourteen
DEAN
The drive toPacky’s feels strained for some reason—Clover directs most of her conversation to the girls in the back seat, and rarely makes eye contact with me, but I tell myself it’ll be fine.
She’ll have a good time once we get there.
I didn’t bully her into attending my party…did I?
I just wanted her to enjoy the night, have a little time off, cut loose, be young. I just wanted her to…
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I wanted her to do, but I know I probably can’t encourage it. Whateveritis.
So, when she grabs her purse and swings out of the truck the second we get to Packy’s, saying, “I’m going to run ahead and change, okay? I want to freshen up before I join the grown-up fun,” I simply nod and wave, promising, “Okay, we’ll see you inside.”
Wewillsee her inside, and itwillbe fine. Better than fine.
I intend to have a good time tonight. I loathe a cheesy kiddie arcade as much as the next parent, but thisisn’tthat.
Packy’s is three stories of polished industrial brick and tasteful neon that feels more like a boutique hotel than a familyfun center. Their beer selection is on point, the cocktails are creative, and the food is actually good.
A fact I’m reminded of as we step through the door into the wood-fired-pizza-scented air…
