Page 3 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
“Yeah, well... watch where you’re going,” I mutter, already sidestepping him. My pulse trips, though I can’t tell if it’s from Richard, the collision, or the man himself.
He watches me go—I can feel it—but he doesn’t call me back. I dismiss our interaction as a missed connection. A blip. Nothing more.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I shove through the doors toward the bar.
The bar sits tucked into a quieter corner of the hotel—low lights and polished wood, trying too hard to feel exclusive. My heels click across the floor as I slide onto a stool, toss my clutch onto the counter, and exhale the weight of the night.
I wait.
And wait.
The clock ticks loudly in my head. Richard’s smug laugh still rings in my ears, while the sting of humiliation burns across my chest.
Five minutes of sitting here, and there’s still no bartender. I drum my nails against the counter, patience shredding fast. How fitting. First my project, now even a simple drink gets stolen from me. A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. Enough!
I slip off the stool, push open the half-door at the end of the bar, and step behind the counter as if I own it. Rows of bottles gleam under soft amber lights, labels like jewels lined up in perfect rows.
“Fine,” I mutter, fingers closing around a tall bottle of bourbon. “If no one else is going to take care of me tonight, I’ll damn well do it myself.”
The cork pops with a satisfying crack. I grab a glass and splash in a reckless pour. The first sip burns—smooth and sharp, heat curling down into my belly. I close my eyes, savoring it, letting the fire chase away the sting of Richard’s voice.
When I open them again, the world feels a little steadier. A little more mine.
2
JACE
The conference hall smells like too much cologne and desperation. Men in sharp suits circle each other like buzzards, tossing around acronyms that don’t mean a damn thing outside these walls. I sit through another panel about “next-generation cyber defense” and wonder if anyone in here has ever touched a real firewall in their life.
Morgan Enterprises isn’t a tech firm. We’re land, cattle, steel, and a logistics arm big enough that security matters. That’s why I’m here, to see which of these companies is worth my money. But listening to another man brag about his “unbreakable encryption” is about as exciting as watching paint dry on a barn door.
After the keynote, Richard Kane, the CEO of AegisTech, makes a beeline for me. I’ve seen his type before: expensive haircut, thousand-dollar watch, handshake like he’s trying to prove something.
“Mr. Morgan,” he says, voice slick as oil. “I’m glad you could join us. I think you’ll find Aegis has solutions tailor-made for an enterprise like yours. We should talk.”
I let him shake my hand, but it’s a formality, as my gut is already waving red flags. He’s too polished, too hungry—the kind of man who’ll cut corners and then bill you double for it.
“I’ll think on it,” I tell him, keeping my tone flat. “But I’d still like to explore more options.”
His smile falters a fraction, and I roll right past him before he can trap me in more talk.
The air feels stale in here, recycled and fake. I need to leave and get a drink, so I wheel out of the conference room and take the elevator down to the lounge, where I believe I spotted a bar earlier.
The bar’s ambience is exactly what I’m looking for—a relief after the conference hall, less noise, fewer sharks in suits.
I maneuver my wheelchair through the crowd, scanning faces, noting movements, and reading tension lines like I always do. It’s second nature. It’s true what they say after all: you can take the ranger out of the army, but you cannot take the army out of the ranger.
Every time I roll across the carpet, I feel eyes glued to me. The chair’s always the first thing they notice. Half of them can’t stop staring; the other half pretend not to, which is worse. I’m used to it, but it still irritates me. My hands grip the chair’s arms a fraction tighter when someone brushes past too close, but I don’t let it show. Nobody gets to see the cracks.
And then I see her, all bright pink hair and a black leather jacket.
It’s the woman who slammed into me an hour ago like she was running from the devil. She’s standing behind the bar, a faint flush on her cheeks, glass in hand, that tiny spark of defiance in the set of her shoulders. Her eyes sweep the room once, like she’s measuring it all and daring it to move her, daring it to care. I know that look. I’ve seen it on people who fight battles you don’t see, the ones who carry more than the world knows. My first thought is that she works here. It makes sense since she sure as hell didn’t fit with the polished crowd at the conference.
I approach, keeping my presence measured but deliberate. When I stop beside her, she looks up. I angle closer. “Whiskey, neat.”
Her green eyes spark fiercely. “Do I look like a bartender to you?”
The edge in her voice makes me sit back a little. Not in retreat, just to watch her. She’s all fire and bite, quick to defend. And damn if I don’t like it. My mouth quirks before I can stop it. “Well, you’re standing behind the counter, holding a bottle. Thought I was putting two and two together.”
