Page 28 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
“Bug come back. We are not done talking,” I call out to her.
“Yes we are!” She yells back before disappearing on the first floor.
A moment later her bedroom door slams so hard the frames on the wall rattle.
Silence hangs heavy in the living room.
I groan in frustration, dragging a hand over my face. My chest aches, torn between guilt and frustration. Being a single parent really is hard, but I try my best. My family makes it easier but Ican’t help but think this would be so much easier if Daisy had a mom. But it’s the one thing I’ve never been able to give her, ever since her mother died giving birth to her. I lost one angel and gained another.
Then I glance at Tessa. She looks steadier than I feel, chin up, shoulders back, even though I can see the sting in her eyes.
“Don’t take it personal,” I mutter, breaking the silence. My voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “She’s stubborn as hell. Gets it from me.”
Tessa huffs a soft laugh, though it doesn’t have much weight behind it. “I figured.”
I study her for a long moment. She’s holding her ground, but I can see the cracks in her armor. And I hate that Daisy put them there. Hell, I hate that I put her in this position without thinking it through.
“Why don’t we discuss the rest of the details back in my office?” I suggest.
Her brows lift. “Details?”
“Yes, ground rules, pay, hours. All the boring stuff.”
“Oh.” She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure.”
With an acknowledging nod, we shift back to my office. I leave my wheelchair by the door and grab us a bottle of bourbon frommy collection and two glasses. I set them down on the coffee table in the corner of the room and perch myself on the couch.
Tessa eyes the bottle warily. “So this is your version of paperwork?”
“Best way I know to negotiate.” I pour her a glass before she can argue.
She takes it, curling onto the couch next to me. The bourbon burns slow as I swallow, but not nearly as slow as the way her eyes study me over the rim of her glass.
We go through the motions at first, talking hours, bedtime routines, school schedules. She’s sharp, firing questions like she’s trying to prove she’s up for it. I answer, but my focus keeps drifting, to the way she licks a drop of whiskey off her lip, to the way she shifts in her seat, her knee brushing mine when she leans closer to point something out in the notebook I grabbed.
The air between us thickens, charged. I know I’m not the only one feeling it from the way she keeps shifting on the sofa, rubbing her thighs together. Fuck me! Or better yet, fuck her. Yeah, that sounds better.
I should call it. End this meeting. But instead, I top up her glass and my own, and the edges of formality start to blur.
She laughs at something I say, a low, easy laugh I haven’t heard from her before. It slides under my skin, loosening something I didn’t know I’d been holding.
By the time we’re halfway through the bottle, the talk of contracts and ground rules has dissolved into something else entirely. That simmering awareness that we’re not negotiating a job anymore, we’re circling something we both know is coming.
Her gaze drops to my mouth and lingers. My body answers before my brain can catch up.
Fuck. I’m already gone.
Her laugh lingers in the air, warm and heady. She leans back on the couch, glass dangling from her fingers, eyes hazy but sharp all the same. That look, half challenge, half dare, hits me harder than the bourbon ever could. It’s the same look she gave me back in DC before she asked for my room number.
I set my glass down, lean forward. “You keep looking at me like that, and we’re not gonna be talking about work anymore.”
Her lips part, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner. “Maybe I’m done talking.”
“Ah, Miss Monroe, you have no idea what you’re signing up for. Don’t tempt me,” I rasp out.
“What’s wrong cowboy? Are you scared?” She giggles, leaning in allowing me to see more of her cleavage.
I suck in a breath, and set down my glass. “Scared no, I just want to give you one last chance to run.”
