Page 33 of Nanny for the Cowboy

“But?” Clover supplies, forcing me to finish the sentence or look like an idiot.

“It’s looking like the cast can come off closer to the seven-week mark.”

Silence fills the space, but when I look over at Clover, I can see her fighting back a smile. I roll my eyes, tossing the rag I’ve been holding onto down on the workbench with a grumble.

“Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

Clover bursts out laughing, and my annoyance flares. I want to do something to punish her or discourage her from laughing at me, but damn, those thoughts are not helping.

Nor are they “suitable for work.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just funny because I just saw my dad, and he was talking about the bet you both made. It looks like my dad’s gonna win.”

“Hey,” I jab a finger at her through the air, “if it comes off at seven, neither of us wins.”

Cocking her head with a smirk, Clover eyes me. “And that’s preferable to him winning, of course.”

“Of course.” I nod once, then my shoulders immediately slump. “Ugh, I’ll admit to being disappointed.”

Clover softens, stepping forward, and I can see the genuine compassion behind her eyes. It’s warm and inviting.

“I get that. I do. I’ve never broken anything, but I can’t imagine being cooped up in that cast sits well with the guy who runs a ranch mostly on his own.”

I huff out a breath through my nose, a short burst of something akin to laughter but not quite as joyful.

“Hit the nail on the head, Lucky.” I turn away from her, cleaning off the surface of the workbench with the rag. “I don’t do well like this. I’m not used to relying on others or being so limited. It’s a tiny form of torture I’m not looking to continue.”

When I turn around, I notice that Clover had crossed the room and is standing at the other end of the workbench, leaning against it.

The need to move hits hard, and I grab a manual sander, just the handheld bit with a piece of sandpaper fitted to the front, and go back to work on the leg.

Smoothing the thing up and down over the edges, I canfeelClover’s eyes on my back. Her stare hits me like this palpable wave of heat.

“How much longer you got on that there project, Ace?”

I can’t help but chuckle at the way Clover asks. She uses a makeshift accent, and it’s utterly ridiculous, if also unfortunately charming.

“This is the third leg. One more after this, and then I can start on the top, which will actually go a lot faster.”

“Well, sure. It’s just a big ol’ rectangle, right?”

There’s a shuffling sound, and I look over my shoulder to see Clover hoisting herself up to sit on the workbench.

My stomach clenches, and there’s this brief flash in my mind of that damned fantasy that’s been haunting me. She’s even wearing jean cut-off shorts.

Fucking hell.

“Yup, just a rectangle.” I turn back to the leg, trying my damnest to focus on the project and not the way Clover’s legs look in those fucking shorts.

“Neat.” Clover pauses, but I can sense there’s more, like maybe she was making small talk before she got to the question she actually wanted to ask me. “So, look, I don’t want to be rude or anything, so sorry in advance. But…what happened to Darby’s mother?”

I drop the sander. It lands on my foot, but the pain is brief since it’s not too heavy. The shock, however, takes several long moments before I can face Clover and actually respond.

“That’s certainly blunt of you.”

“I know. I know. Call it the New Yorker in me.” I look up at her, and Clover is still sending out beams of compassion, somehow knowing this sucks for me. “I’m not trying to, you know, trigger you or anything. But I think it will help me with Darby, help me understand what he’s—what you’ve both—been through.”

It’s logical. It makes sense. And I still don’t think I can talk about this.

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