Page 23 of Nanny for the Cowboy

“That’s not what I mean, Dad. Youlikelike her. Like boyfriend-girlfriend.” Darby raises his brows at me, his little facecarrying the expression of annoyance that I’m so obtuse—not that he would use that word.

“Son,” I put both my hands on his shoulders, casting a look down at him that’ll be sure to let him know this conversation is a no-go, “Clover is your nanny.That’s all. You know it’s not polite to poke into people’s personal lives, yeah? So, let’s keep that talk out of this house.”

Darby looks up at me, shaded with guilt. I feel bad for knocking him down like that. But the truth is I can’t have that conversation. Even if I did “like-like” Clover, that can’t happen.

She’s Leo’s daughter, several years my junior, and is currently working for me. The levels of forbidden are too deep for anyone to wade through.

Besides, I don’t. I don’t think about anyone that way. Too much baggage to tread those waters, and I ain’t look for another crushed ego and internal scars far worse than any broken arm.

“Sorry, Dad.” He hangs his head, and I pull it back up by the chin.

“You’re okay, bud. Just go wash up for dinner. You can help Clover with the cooking since you like that part.”

He perks up. “No shucking the stables?”

“Nah, I’ll take care of it this time. Go on.” I shoo him up the stairs, lingering there as I stare up into the second story.

I don’t like the woman. Hell, all we do is bicker. I’m just being nice. Can’t have her running back to Leo with complaints, after all. That’s it.

But I stare up the steps for too long, and I have to shake myself out of it so that I can go outside like I promised. As much as shoveling shit sounds like a grand ol’ time, I think it’s better than being in the house a moment longer.

NINE

Brooks

Brooks

Why am I standing under the spray of my shower when I know I’ve suds up? Why am I still trapped in here even though I’ve been done for at least five minutes?

Because as much as my body might be all squeaky clean, my mind damn well isn’t.

But ever since Darby had the insight to poke at me about Clover, my brain hasn’t been able to let it go. Worse, during dinner, she was her charming self and smelled so damn good fresh out of the shower—lilacs and vanilla.

This is bad, Brooks. This is real fucking stupid.

And yet, all I can see when I close my eyes—letting the water fall across my face in some unsuccessful attempt to wash the thoughts away—is her.

Those curves, the gentle lift of her mouth when she smirks at me, the way she laughs with her whole body, not shy about taking up space or being loud…

It’s all so different than most of the people here, so different from the last woman I tried to start something with. Hell, I had started it with Leah, she just picked when it ended.

You don’t like her. You don’t like her. You don’t like her.

It’s been playing in my mind on repeat like a broken record. And it’s doing fuckall to convince me that I don’t actually find Clover attractive—soattractive.

The water is still warm, and the house outside my bedroom is quiet. Everyone has turned in for the night, Darby asleep and Clover at least in the guest room where I’m safe from running into her.

So why haven’t I left this stupid shower? Why am I leaning against the wall with one hand as the other cast-ridden one hangs at my side, trying desperately not to move a particular one of them?

Don’t. Don’t do it, Brooks.

But my hand moves almost on its own, guided by thoughts of that strawberry blonde and the sleek shape she pours into her jeans. I can see her behind my lids, taunting me with that attitude.

That attitude that silently demands a firm hand.

I imagine Clover that night she came into the shed while I was working.

I imagine that this time, she wasn’t just wearing those leggings and a T-shirt. I picture Clover in the jean shorts she’s been choosing since she settled in, the way the frayed edges drift down across the backs of her legs…her thighs…her ass.

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