I freeze with my beer halfway to my mouth, already planning elaborate ways to disembowel the two frat boys staring at her backside with matching smirks.
Fifteen
DEAN
What the fuckis she wearing?
I’ve never seen Clover in anythingremotelythat 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.
Thoughcrop topis 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 literallycan’tlook 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. Dowhatevershe 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 fuckinghatethat 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’swhat 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’sdad. 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.
