Nanny for the SEALs by Cassie Cole

4

Heather

Sitting in my seat with Maurice on one side and Rogan in front of me, I felt like a trapped animal. There was only one way out of the suite, and Jonah Weiman might walk through it at any moment and reveal that we had been lying.

We have to get out of here.

“I’m going to get some more food,” I said.

Rogan perked up. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get you a plate, so you can stay and enjoy the game.”

“No, no, that’s okay! I’m not sure what I want.” I stood up. “Maurice, want to come with me?”

He smiled up at me. “I’m having fun chatting with our new friend Rogan. I want to hear all about the services he can provide.”

“Maurice, I need your help.” I grabbed his arm and practically dragged him out of his seat. Rogan had already turned around and was watching the last two minutes of the quarter.

“What’s the matter with you?” Maurice whispered when we were back in the suite.

“Jonah Weiman is my agent. Well, not my agent. Amirah Pratt’s agent.”

“I was distracted by Rogan McDreamboat’s eyes,” Maurice said wistfully, “but I did hear that part of the conversation.”

I made an impatient noise. “If Weiman is her agent, then when he gets back he’ll know I’m an impostor! We have to get out of here.”

Maurice grabbed the food tongs and began refilling his plate. “You have to get out of here. I’m not pretending to be anyone I’m not. I’m just Maurice, the charming—and sneakily-sexy—young actor who wants to hear about all the ways these bodyguards are going to cover me.”

“I had to practically drag you in here,” I hissed, “and now you’re refusing to leave?”

“That was before I met the hunks of HLS Security. I am not afraid of getting caught because I am too busy picking my favorite.” He turned and squinted out at the seats. “Right now that tasty blond boy is leading. He’s like a sexy librarian.”

I snatched the plate out of his hand. “You came in with me. If I get caught, you’re caught too.” I pointed at the door to the suite. “We need to leave before Jonah Weiman walks through that…”

I trailed off. The door to the suite swung open at precisely that moment, because of course it did. I winced and steeled myself, expecting to see the man that could—and would—reveal our deception.

I relaxed when I realized it wasn’t Jonah Weiman. It wasn’t a man at all, in fact. It was a tall, slender woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore jeans and a baggy designer T-shirt, the kind that looks like it came from the thrift shop but probably cost over a hundred dollars. She was vaguely familiar. In fact, she kind of looked like me.

Oh.

Oh no.

Maurice made a choking noise and smacked at my arm. “Heather. That’s…”

“Hi, sorry I’m late!” the blonde woman cheerfully said. She extended her hand to one of the other couples in the suite. “I’m Amirah.”

Entering the suite behind her was Jonah Weiman. “Found her. She was signing autographs down at the main entrance. I told you, the next time you come to one of these events we can bring you in through a different door.”

“I like meeting with fans!” she said. “It only costs me a few seconds of time, and it makes their day.”

All the color drained from Maurice’s face. “I have changed my mind,” he whispered to me. “I would like to go home now.”

“We have to hide!”

“No, wait—” Maurice hissed.

The bathroom was the closest door to me, and it was open with the light on, so I darted in there. Maurice wasn’t following me, and we were out of time, so I gave him a panicked look and then closed the door.

But although the bathroom door had been open, it wasn’t unoccupied. Rogan was standing there, drying his hands on a paper towel. I ran smack into his body, which was functionally the same thing as running head-first into a brick wall.

“Oof,” I grunted, staggering as I hit him. My vision flashed white and I began to fall. Rogan dropped the paper towel and his arms wrapped around me, keeping me from hitting the ground.

I was rarely at a loss for words—Maurice would attest to that—but as I gazed into Rogan’s dark eyes, I struggled to think of what to say. I knew he was strong based on the way he looked, but it was different to actually feel him holding me with that strength. He handled me as easily as he had handled the sheet of paper towel that was now resting on the floor between us.

And his scent. Rogan’s cologne was pungent in all the right ways, filling my nostrils with the intoxicating smell of smoke and spice and sweetness. Our faces were close together, and his lips were pursed together in a small smile. They looked kissable. I wanted to kiss them, I realized. Who wouldn’t? Especially while he was holding me in his arms…

“Woah there,” he said. “You okay, Amirah?”

Hearing the other woman’s name shook me out of my daze. “Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was in here. The door was open…”

“I just came in here to wash my hands. I’ll leave you to it.” He nodded, and started to move past me. Back into the suite.

Where the real Amirah was.

Before I tell you about the stupid thing I did next, you have to understand the situation I was in. I was panicking. I had snuck into a suite owned by a bunch of beefy security guys, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And the person I was pretending to be had just arrived. I was about to get caught. I felt like an animal backed into a corner. And animals backed into corners did desperate things.

What desperate thing did I do? I kissed Rogan Holt.

I had to stand on my tip-toes to crush my lips against his. He was stiff at first, but having my breasts pressed against his chest made his body come alive. His arms enveloped me again and he leaned into me, churning his warm lips against mine. I surged upward with need as he squeezed me tighter. One of his strong hands slid down to my lower back, pulling me into him while his knee pushed between my legs. I leaned into it, grinding against his hard-as-stone leg, the thin fabric of my dress swishing with every scintillating jolt.

For a few seconds, we surrendered to the sexual urges driving us on. Two near-strangers enjoying one-another away from the rest of the group.

Rogan pried his lips away from mine long enough to ask in a husky voice, “Does this mean you want to hire us?”

“I do,” I replied, leaning into him with need. I could feel his hard length in his dress pants, radiating heat against my thigh. “But not for security.”

He grinned lustily, but before he could kiss me again, a Boston accent cut through the air in the suite behind us.

“Wait a fucken minute. You can’t be Amirah Pratt. She’s already here.” Heeyah instead of here.

Rogan’s eyes widened, then fixated on me with a new type of intensity. One of alarm rather than desire.

Like a bouncer manhandling a rowdy club-goer, Rogan grabbed a handful of fabric from the back of my dress and pushed me out into the suite. Every head in the room swiveled to look at me. Maurice was next to the bathroom door, his back pressed against the wall like he was trying to blend in like a chameleon.

Jonah Weiman stepped toward me and extended his hand. “Jonah Weiman. And you are…?”

I shook his hand and tried to think of something to say. I glanced at the door. It was less than twenty feet away. If we took off at a run, we could probably escape.

Rogan’s voice was deep and commanding. “What’s going on here?”

The partner with the Boston accent pointed at the real Amirah. “Oh, shit. She could be your stunt double.”

“My… My what?” the real Amirah asked with a confused chuckle.

Rogan’s eyes were locked onto me. I felt mesmerized. I couldn’t look away now that I was caught. I guess this was how deer felt right before they got hit by a car.

“She was lying,” said the blond guy, Asher. He adjusted his glasses and said, “She’s not Amirah. She is.”

Maurice jumped back from me and let out a dramatic gasp worthy of an Oscar nomination. “You’re not Amirah Pratt?”

Nobody bought it. He sighed and awkwardly looked at his feet.

Meanwhile, the guy with the Boston accent had casually slipped along the wall until he stood in front of the door. He was blocking the exit. The only other way out was to leap from the balcony seats onto the court.

Which, right about then, was more tempting than I’d like to admit.

Everyone was staring at me, so I said, “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Really?” Rogan asked. He allowed a trickle of authority in his voice that reminded me of an Army officer dressing-down a private. “Because it looks like you snuck into our suite to get free food and drinks.”

I winced. “Okay, so it’s exactly what it looks like. But it wasn’t just about the food and drinks! We chose your suite because we saw Jonah Weiman coming out of here. We wanted to talk to him about representation. But when you thought I was someone else, I panicked and went along with it.”

Maurice took one big step to his right and nudged Jonah with his elbow. “You’d have to be a pretty good actor to pull that off. Right? I’m Maurice Whitman. Like the poet, but I’m an actor rather than a wordsmith. You probably recognize me from my headshots.”

“Kid, I have no idea who you are,” Jonah said bluntly.

Maurice’s shoulders sank a few inches.

Amirah looked around and laughed nervously. “Is this some sort of joke? I don’t think I get it, ha ha.”

“It’s not a joke,” Rogan said solemnly. “I need to call stadium security.”

The leathery woman with the enormous fake boobs snorted loudly. “I knew she wasn’t the real Amirah Pratt. I told you, didn’t I, baby? I’m good with faces. And look at her hair. Too many split ends, and it’s not framing her face very well…”

Everyone has a fight or flight response. Up until that moment, flight had been winning for me. Flee out the front door. Jump from the balcony seats. Grab the tablecloth from the food table and use it as a parachute. Okay, that last one probably wouldn’t work. Impulses aren’t always logical.

But when this Bimbo Barbie woman insulted the way I looked? The needle swung all the way over to fight.

“Not everyone can afford to have their hair done once a week,” I snapped at her. “Some of us are barely getting by. I have to beg, borrow, or steal every opportunity. This is a tough town, and I will not apologize for doing whatever it takes to try to make it. And I happen to think I look pretty damn good, all things considering.”

The woman leaned back as I took a step toward her.

“And even if I was a mess, you’re the last person who should be judging the way someone looks.”

She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you look like someone duct-taped a pair of volleyballs onto your chest. And one of the volleyballs has more air in it than the other one. So I will not let someone like you ridicule the way I look, or what I’ve done.”

I was vaguely aware of Rogan’s phone ringing. He answered it, said, “Let me call you back, Patty,” and then shoved it back in his pocket. His eyes never left me or the scene I was causing.

“Calm down, sweetie,” Jonah said patronizingly. “There’s no need to get your panties in a wad.”

“You want some of this wrath too?” I said, whirling toward him. “Maurice here has sent headshots to everyone at The Weiman Agency. He’s gone down the list, agent by agent. And he’s never so much as gotten a rejection email.”

Jonah was surprised by my anger. “We don’t have time to respond to every single—”

“Do you know how much headshots cost?” I jabbed a finger into his chest, backing him up a step. “They’re not cheap. Especially not for an aspiring actor trying to get representation. It takes ten seconds to send someone a rejection email. You’re too busy to do that? Then hire a goddamn intern.”

Jonah blinked at me, at a loss for words.

“Lady, don’t try to act like you’re the victim here,” said the guy with the Boston accent. He was still standing in front of the suite exit, smirking at the scene. “You broke into our suite and mooched a bunch of free booze. We ought to make you pay for that.”

I rounded on him. “Seriously? Which are you most worried about—the one-and-a-half beers I drank, or the six little cocktail sliders? There’s like seven people in here, and you have enough food and alcohol to feed an army. We barely made a dent. I guess your company must be really hurting if you’re pinching pennies like that.”

An idea came to me. It wouldn’t help matters much, but I was on a roll and I couldn’t stop myself.

“What kind of a security company are you, anyway?” I looked back at Rogan. “You do private security for athletes, but two randos can sneak their way into your suite? I’d be embarrassed if I were you.”

Rogan winced. That struck a nerve.

My blood was hot and my pulse thrummed in my ears. It felt good to let some anger out. I gazed around the room, looking for another target for my ire.

“Well?” I demanded. “Anyone else want to get some shots in? Kick the two actors while they’re down? Come on!”

But Maurice tugged on the sleeve of my dress. While I was yelling at the Boston guy, he’d backed away from the door. Our exit was open.

I hesitated, then grabbed the door handle and threw it open. The stunned people in the suite watched in silence as we fled from the room, and the arena.