Page 8 of The Nanny Game Plan
Instead, I ask, “Want to play darts?”
“Idowant to play darts.” He rises, his half-empty beer in hand, and reaches for mine. “I’ll bring yours over?”
I nod, chest tightening. “I can carry things, you know.” I slide to the edge of the booth before using my cane to get to my feet. “I just have to get up first. I’m not a total damsel in distress.”
“No, you’re a damsel on a date, and I’m trying to be a gentleman,” he says, before adding with a wink, “for now. But when it comes time to beat you at darts, the gloves are coming off.”
“I would hope so,” I purr, following him past the popcorn machine to the ancient dart boards in the corner. “I don’t like it when people let me win. I want to dominate the field of play fair and square.”
“Dominate.” He clucks his tongue as he sets our beers on a high-top table nearby. “Aggressive language. Am I going to need a safe word?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Guess we’ll see. If you do, what would it be? Just in case?”
“I don’t know,” he says, pulling the darts from the cork. “Pickle juice?”
I laugh. “Pickle juice?”
“Definitely, not a phrase I’m going to shout out by accident.”
I bite my lip, flustered by the thought of Dean “shouting out things by accident,” a fact I cover by taking a drink of my beer. When I emerge from my glass, he’s staring at me expectantly. “What?”
“You never told me your safe word,” he says.
“Oh, well…” I search my brain, but there’s nothing there.
Nothing but the nagging certainty that I have to be honest with him. Pretending to be this wild, confident girl who bullies men into buying her drinks any night of the week is fun, but it’s not me. Even if this is just a one-night thing, Dean deserves to know what he’s getting into here.
So, I sigh, and do the thing I always do, the thing where I ruin a good time by being annoyingly, buzz-killingly honest.
“I don’t have one,” I confess. “I’m not as wild as I pretend to be when I’ve had a few shots of whiskey.”
He arches a brow. “A few?”
I nod. “Yes. Three. I’m definitely tipsy, but getting less tipsy with every passing moment because honesty is sobering. And speaking of honesty, I’m…” I wrinkle my nose as I add, “I’m twenty-four.”
His brows shoot up his forehead. “Oh.”
Dammit! I knew it. He thought I was older, I forking knew it!
I trace a finger through the condensation on the side of my beer glass. “I know I look older, and I hang out with older people, so it’s?—”
“You don’t look older,” he cuts in. “I mean, you don’t lookthatyoung, but you don’t look that much older, either. I mean, I just… Sorry, I…” He pulls in a breath, setting the darts on the table beside our beers, taking a beat before he adds, “I just turned thirty-five.”
Thirty-five. Eleven years.
It feels like a lot.
Or it feels like itshouldfeel like a lot. But standing here, staring up into his open, concerned expression, all I feel is safe. And turned on. And pretty sure he’s the yummiest guy I’ve encountered in years.
Fuck it, why shouldn’t we have a yummy night? Being honest doesn’t have to ruin things. Being honest can just…clarifythem, put the guardrails in place, ensuring no one tumbles into the Canyon of Wanting More and gets hurt.
With that in mind, I say, “Okay, so, this probably isn’t a first date. It’s probably anonlydate… Right?”
He nods, a little sadly, I like to think. “Probably so.” He presses his lips together, then pushes his beer away. “Want me to take you home?”
I shake my head, pulse spiking as I gather the last of my Saturday night courage. “No, silly. I mean, not unless…you’re coming with me.”
His eyes lock with mine, making my belly flip. “Yeah?”
