Page 28 of Nanny for the Cowboy

Brooks lets out a chuckle. “Unless I missed something and a cougar or wolf can open a door now, I think we’ll be fine.”

He doesn't seem worried in the slightest, utterly brushing off my concerns. So I should feel better. Except I don’t.

Ping.

I startle a little, hearing the classic chime of my phone in my pocket. I fish it out of my shorts to take a peek at who’s messaging me.

Rosie is supposed to be texting me about meeting up, and I’m hoping that she picked a time since it’s her schedule we’re working around.

“Got a date?” Brooks drawls.

“Hardly.” I make a face at him. “It’s Rosie. We’re trying to pick a day to get coffee.”

When I look down at my phone, however, I quickly learn that it’s not Rosie, and my stomach drops.

You think you can just run and hide, Clover? Wrong. This isn’t over until I say it is.

Nausea crawls up the back of my throat, and I stumble out of my chair, my eyes glued to the words on my screen and who sent them—Kyle.

“Fucking shit,” I mumble, the words out before I can think better of it. “Goddamn it. You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me.”

My blood pumps ice through my veins, and I notice that my fingers are trembling as my pulse ticks up.

“Clover?” Brooks walks over, and I’m snapped back to reality where I’m in the kitchen with my boss and he’s about to look at my phone. “What’s going on?”

I turn around, trying to block my screen so that I can delete the message and pretend like this never happened, but Brooks is tall. And as I pointed out earlier, I’m not. He looks over my shoulder, right next to me in a flash, and it’s too late as I stuff my phone back into my pocket.

“What the?—”

“It’s…” I try to cut Brooks off with some lame excuse, but it disappears as I stare at him.

Dammit.

My thoughts are churning, and I can’t help but think about the other day at the park. I felt like I was being watched. Was I?

I’ve been hearing noises. I’ve noticed bushes rustling as I pass, felt eyes on my skin. Is it Kyle? Is he in fucking Red Lodge?

I’m wobbling on my feet, and I think I’m breathing too quickly. My head feels like it’s full of cotton, and then Brooks is in my face, holding either of my shoulders.

“Clover, you need to talk to me.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s nothing. Besides, I’m not looking for a damn pity party because I got freaked about something.”

I’m a snappy bitch on the best of days, but the words coming out of my mouth feel like they’re being spoken by someone else. I don’t know why I’m being so defensive, except for the obvious need to pretend like this isn’t happening.

It’s not working.

“I want to help you, Lucky, but you have to talk to me. Let me in.”

When I meet his eyes, Brooks squeezes my shoulder. I haven’t seen him like this before. His touch is soft but reassuring, and I can see genuine concern in his challenging stare like he’s really looking to help me out.

Why? Why does he even care? We’ve been around each other for like two weeks. He has no reason to want to help me.

Still, it’s there. That empathy and worry—about fucking me, of all people. Seeing it from someone who isn’t my dad breaks me.

Am I really doing this? Do I really trust him?

I search the depths of his hazel eyes. He’s so protective of Darby. He’s volunteered his home to help me out just because he knows my dad. Everyone in town says he’s an “ace,” that guy you can count on to have your back.

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