Page 64 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
“Only when I’m sure I’m right.”
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts before he does as I ask, turning onto his stomach. The light catches on the scars that cut across his back—pale, rough, like stories carved into skin.
My breath catches. I trace one with my fingertip, feather-light. “God, Jace…”
He tenses again, his muscles jumping under my touch. “They’re old,” he says roughly. “Don’t look at them like that.”
That earns a faint huff, a ghost of a laugh that vanishes as quickly as it comes. “It hurts less when I move. Or when someone works it out.”
“Then let me.”
He lifts his head slightly, turning to glance at me over his shoulder. “You offering a massage, Ms. Hacker?”
His tone is teasing, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty there, a crack in the armor.
“Yes,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “Unless you’d rather pretend you’re fine until morning.”
He studies me for a long beat, then sighs and lays his head back down. “You’re impossible.”
“Good thing you like impossible.”
I climb over him, straddling his hips gently, careful not to press where it might hurt. My hands hover above his back for a moment, feeling the warmth radiating from him, the tension running deep. Then I start—slow circles, thumbs working up from his lower back to his shoulders.
He groans, low and guttural, but this time it sounds different. Not pain, but release.
“God,” he mutters into the pillow. “You’re good at this.”
“I learn fast.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. “You should’ve told me sooner.”
“Didn’t think you signed up to play nurse.”
“I didn’t, but I’m here anyway.” I swallow hard. “Tell me what they mean.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes, slow and uneven. His shoulders are tense beneath my hands, every muscle pulled tight like a drawn bowstring. I can feel the battle happening inside him, between pride and pain, control and surrender.
After a while, he murmurs, “You really didn’t look me up?”
I smile faintly, leaning closer. “No.”
“You? The woman who can crack a Pentagon firewall in her sleep?”
“Some things I’d rather hear from you.”
He lets out a low sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “Guess I owe you the story, then.”
His voice is quiet at first, almost lost beneath the slow rhythm of my hands. “I was deployed in Somalia. It was supposed to be a short mission—recon, assist, extraction. Nothing we hadn’t done before.”
He pauses, breath catching as I work my thumbs along the ridge of his spine. I can feel the tension there, not just physical, but memory.
“But we got ambushed,” he continues. “An IED went off under the lead Humvee. I was in the second truck. Shrapnel hit me before I even knew what was happening. It threw me clear, broke half my ribs, tore through my legs and back. I remember the sound more than anything—like the world was ripping itself apart.”
My throat tightens. I keep moving, tracing gentle lines down his back, grounding him. “Jace…”
He exhales through his nose, a rough sound that’s half laugh, half pain. “They said I was lucky. Spent eight months in a hospital bed, wondering what the hell that meant.”
I feel his muscles twitch beneath my palms, small, involuntary spasms that tell me he’s reliving it even now.
“After that, I had to undergo physical therapy, every damn day for a year. I had to learn to walk again, learned not to hate the body that didn’t work the way it used to.”
