Page 11 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
Which is why I laugh under my breath now. The freelancer coming today is just another name. Another city expert who’ll probably see the mud and the cattle and want out. There’s no reason my mind should be circling back to her.
I close the résumé and wheel back from the desk. I arrive outside just as the truck I sent to pick her up from the airport pulls up near the porch. A woman steps out, adjusting the strap of her laptop bag across one shoulder.
At first, it’s the hair that hits me. Not bright pink this time, but a darker shade like the flesh of a watermelon, pulled back neat like she’s trying to look professional. Even without the hair, I’d know the curve of that jaw anywhere, the way she scans her surroundings fast, like she’s measuring exits.
My chest goes tight.No fucking way.
She thanks the driver, who’s already dealing with her bags, and turns. The morning light spills across her face. Yeah, it’s definitely her. The girl from D.C. The one I thought I’d never see again, who’s been haunting my nights ever since. Tessa. We didn’t exchange names, but I caught a glimpse of the lanyard she had that day, which had her name on it. But the résumé said Sienna Carter.
She doesn’t flinch when her gaze snags on me at the top of the porch. For a second, I think maybe she recognizes me, but her expression smooths out fast—cool and polite. Like I’m just another client.
I wheel forward, the motor humming low, and stop by the doorframe. My fingers grip the rim a little too hard.
“You must be Sienna Carter,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“In the flesh. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” She flashes a quick smile, rehearsed, nothing like the smirk I remember curling against my skin.
But I’m not imagining this. My body sure as hell isn’t. Every detail from that night is burned into me.
She extends her hand, but I don’t take it right away. I let my eyes linger a beat longer than I should, and something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe. Or maybe I just want it to be.
Finally, I reach back. Her grip is firm, professional. No hint of the woman who clawed my back as she gasped into the sheets.
“I’m Jace Morgan,” I tell her, letting a touch of steel into the words. “CEO here. And the man who hired you.”
“Then I guess I’m in the right place,” she answers smoothly. But there’s a flicker in her eyes, quick and sharp, before she looks away toward the fields.
She’s pretending that she doesn’t know me. And I don’t know what pisses me off more—that she’s lying to my face, or that my body doesn’t give a damn.
“Come on in,” I say, rolling back into the house. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Behind me, I hear the faint click of her boots on the porch, then the door shutting softly.
She follows me into my office, eyes darting over the ranch photographs on the wall, the mix of old ledgers and new tech sprawled across my desk. Her gaze lingers on the security monitors, live feeds of which cover most of the ranch.
“You run all this yourself?” she asks.
“Most days,” I answer. “When my brothers aren’t pretending to help.”
That earns the faintest twitch at her mouth, a ghost of the smirk I remember. It’s enough to punch heat through me, unwelcome and sharp.
I wheel behind the desk, let the hum of the chair fill the silence. “So, do you know why you’re here?”
She nods, sets her bag down, and pulls out a laptop. Professional, efficient. Like she’s really here to work. Like she isn’t the same woman who dragged me back to my hotel room and rode me until I thought I’d break.
I fold my arms, watching her fingers fly over the keyboard. She doesn’t look up when she talks. “Your system’s outdated.Firewalls are two years behind. Remote sensors aren’t encrypted. Anyone with half a brain could walk through your gates and your network both.”
I should be annoyed at the bluntness. Instead, I feel that same spark from D.C.—her sharp tongue, the way she never softens her edges. It’s her, all of her. And she’s standing in my office acting like we’re strangers.
“You’re direct,” I say, leaning back.
Her eyes flick up, meet mine for half a second. “You hired me for direct.”
The air thickens between us. For one long beat, it’s just the two of us—the hum of equipment, the memory of how her breath sounded breaking against my neck. She looks away first, snapping her laptop shut.
“I’ll need access to your logs, routers, and any devices connected to the network,” she says briskly.
My jaw flexes. “You’ll get what you need.”
I should end it there. Walk out, let her work. But something in me won’t.
