Page 53 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
We watch her climb the bus steps and turn to wave from the window. Jace waves back, and when she’s gone, he exhales.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She’s in good hands,” I assure him.
He looks at me like he’s aware of exactly how much I mean it. “I know.”
I don’t know what makes me do it—maybe the warmth in his voice, the calm between us, or the ache of wanting something more—but I step closer. Just enough that his breath catches.
“See you when we get back?” I whisper, linking our hands.
He squeezes back, smiling. “You better.”
I turn before I can lose my nerve and walk toward the bus. My heart’s still thudding as I climb aboard. When I glance out the window, he’s still standing there, watching us drive away. Daisy and I wave until he’s out of sight.
The bus ride to the camping site is not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Kids chatter over each other, trading snacks and arguing about who gets the window seats. Daisy sits beside me, one hand around my arm, leaning on my shoulder, the other sneaking pretzels from the bag I packed.
“Save some for later,” I warn, laughing as she grins with her mouth full.
“I’m carb-loading. That’s what athletes do before big adventures.”
“Right, because an overnight field trip counts as the Olympics now?”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t you want to sit with your friends?” I ask, hoping she’s not feeling obligated to sit with me.
“Nope, I want to sit with you,” she asserts, and I don’t dare argue.
And so we sit together for the whole bus ride.
The teacher up front gets the kids to sing along to fun tunes, and chaos follows—the good kind—and somehow, I end up leading a camp song from memory. Daisy giggles so hard she gets hiccups.
When the bus finally lurches to a stop at the campsite, a chorus of cheers erupts. The air smells like pine and damp earth. I step down, stretching my legs, feeling that mix of exhaustion and adrenaline that comes with wrangling small humans.
We unload sleeping bags, duffels, and all our camping gear. After we set up all the tents, we settle in and the fun begins.
The afternoon passes in a blur of trail walks, camp games, and burnt marshmallows. Daisy sticks to me like a shadow, something I don’t mind at all. Watching her laugh, I feel something deep and unguarded open inside me. Maybe this is what healing looks like: small, ordinary moments that sneak up and stay.
After dinner, the kids gather around a campfire while the teachers tell ghost stories that are more silly than scary. Daisy leans against me, eyelids heavy, her head tucked under my arm. When the fire and stories burn down, the teachers herd everyone toward bed.
After settling Daisy into her own tent, which she’s sharing with two other girls, I retire to my own, lulled to sleep by the distant hum of crickets.
Sometime later, I startle awake when I hear someone unzipping my tent. Before I can freak out, I feel a small tug on my sleeping bag, followed by a familiar voice. “Tessa?”
Daisy’s big eyes meet mine. “Hey, Bug,” I murmur, sitting up. “Is everything okay?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t sleep.”
I unzip the sleeping bag, and she climbs in beside me without hesitation, curling up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hair smells faintly of campfire and marshmallows. I hold her against me, humming a lullaby under my breath, and we lie there for a while, staring at the shadows dancing on my tent. My hand rests on her back, feeling each slow breath she takes. She’s so small, yet she fills every inch of the space beside me.
After a long pause, she asks softly, “Tessa? Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you like my dad?”
The question lands so gently I almost laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
“Like… like like?” she presses, voice muffled in the blanket.
