Page 42 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
“Daisy…” I start carefully. “Your dad might—“
“Just a little,” she insists, bouncing now. “He won’t even notice! He never looks at the ends. He just says ‘brush your hair, sweetheart’ and moves on.”
I can’t help but snort again. “You’ve clearly studied your target.”
Jace is more attentive than she gives him credit for.
“Please, Tessa.” Her voice softens, small and hopeful. “You said I should try new things. Be creative. That’s what this is, right?”
Okay, fine. That’s emotional blackmail, but damn if it isn’t effective.
“Alright,” I sigh, grabbing another towel. “But we’re going subtle. I only have pink, though, and if your dad asks, we call it… sun-kissed.”
She squeals so loud I almost drop the bowl.
Ten minutes later, Daisy’s sitting on a stool with her hair sectioned into neat parts, and I’m painting on streaks of pink at the ends. She keeps twisting to see in the mirror, chattering nonstop.
“Does it sting?”
“Nope, not unless you’ve secretly been setting your head on fire.”
“Can I tell Ella about it?”
“Only if you want her to rat us out.”
“What about Grandpa Hank?”
“Oh, he’s probably gonna love it. He looks like the type who’d say, ‘Back in my day, hair was hair!’”
She bursts into laughter so contagious that I end up laughing too. The dye gets on her cheek, then mine, and by the time we’re done, we both look like we’ve lost a paintball match.
We rinse, dry, and the mirror reveals our handiwork. Daisy’s curls glint with soft pink ends, catching the light like sunset candy.
Her smile is so wide it hurts to look at. “I love it,” she whispers.
Something squeezes in my chest, a warmth I didn’t invite but can’t seem to stop. “Me too,” I admit quietly. “You look… like you.”
She turns, eyes bright. “You look like you too.”
And for a minute, between the laughter, the towel-draped chaos, and the pink dye-stained sink, it almost feels like I belong here.
When Daisy finally runs off to show Grandpa Hank her new hair, my room goes still again. The echo of her laughter fades down the hall, replaced by the low hum of evening cicadas and the faint sound of horses neighing in the stables.
I glance around the bathroom. There are dye-streaked towels everywhere, pink fingerprints on the sink, and one of Daisy’s hair ties in my pocket. It’s chaos. Warm, soft, human chaos.
I should clean it up, but I just… stop.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back, hair freshly pink again, brighter than before, cheeks flushed from laughter. For a second, I don’t recognize her. She looks lighter. Softer.
Not the woman who runs or the one who hides behind firewalls and fake names.
Just… me.
I lean on the counter, tracing the rim of the bowl with my finger until it leaves a faint smear of pink.
God, I’m getting attached.
To the girl who calls me her best friend after two weeks. To this ranch that smells like hay and cinnamon coffee. To the man whose voice still echoes in my chest long after he’s left the room.
