Page 32 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
And yet, she doesn’t quit. She was stubborn enough to volunteer for the nanny position, something she’s not built for. She’s so stubborn, and I find that very sexy.
Stop it, Jace!
I rub a hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath. I can’t let myself get pulled into this. Not again. I’ve already crossed a line once, and I’m still kicking myself for it. I can’t afford to tangle myself up in someone like her—not with Daisy involved, and especially not with the kind of past she’s dragging behind her.
She’s temporary. That’s all she’s supposed to be. A quick fix until I find someone steady. Someone safe.
But hell, if she hasn’t proven herself.
She came here as an outsider, soft where this land is hard, clueless about ranch life, but she’s still standing. More than that, she’s showing up for Daisy, even when Daisy makes it hard. Even when I make it hard.
I take a slow breath, swallowing the knot in my throat. The truth is, right now, I need her. Not as a distraction, not as the woman who keeps me up at night replaying every stolen look, but as someone Daisy can lean on until I get my shit together and bring in a real nanny.
That has to be enough.
“Jace.” My name cuts over the table. Ella’s looking at me now, one eyebrow lifted. “You good? You’ve been staring at the porch the whole meeting.”
I give what passes for a shrug. “Just watching the weather come in.” It’s an obvious lie, and they can all tell. My brothers exchange looks. Beck’s amused, while Zane’s more like a clock resetting as if he’s just realized something.
Dad clears his throat, pulling our attention back to the meeting, which I’m grateful for.
We discuss schedules, who’s taking care of what, and I answer when I have to. My words are clipped and useful, but half of me stays on that porch, watching the slow choreography between the woman who doesn’t belong and the kid who does.
Tessa looks up and, without meaning to, catches my eye through the window. She doesn’t look startled. She only gives the smallest tilt of her head, an acknowledgement of my presence. That simple look and something shifts in my chest—want, worry, and a dozen small alarms. I push the feeling away before it burrows into my heart and drives me crazy.
The meeting wraps up, and I pick up my coffee mug and the pot to treat myself to a refill when, through the glass, I see Daisy’s pencil skid across the page of the workbook in front of her. Her little face bunches, mouth twisting like she’s tasting something sour. Tessa leans closer, calm as ever, pointing to the problem. Daisy shakes her head defiantly.
Even from here, I can tell it’s not just math that’s bothering her. It’s Tessa.
Daisy jerks back, mutters something I can’t hear, and pushes her workbook onto the porch boards with enough force that it skids under the railing. Tessa blinks, startled, then softens her face, trying to coax Daisy back. My girl doesn’t budge. She stands, fists clenched at her sides, cheeks red with a fury too big for her small frame. Her braid swings like a whip when she shouts—this time loud enough I hear it clear as a bell:
“You’re not my mom! You can’t tell me what to do!”
The whole table freezes. Beck’s grin drops, Zane sets his pen down, eyebrows shooting up as if he’s heard something wrong, while Ella gasps before covering her mouth. Even our old man, who has weathered storms and four sons, looks like he’s been blindsided by lightning.
I launch myself out of my wheelchair so fast I get dizzy, but I push through.
“Jace—“ Ella starts, but I’m already gone, shoving the screen door open so hard it slams against the wall.
On the porch, Daisy’s chest is heaving while Tessa stands frozen, the workbook forgotten at her feet. My girl’s eyes are wide and wet, an unmistakable fire behind them. She turns toward me, and I feel it—her hurt, fear, and grief all tangled up into something sharp.
“Daisy Haven Morgan! What is wrong with you?” My voice cuts across the porch like a whip crack.
Her chin jerks up in defiance, but I see her lower lip trembling. Behind me, I hear the shuffle of boots as the rest of the family follows. They don’t push past me; they just hover at the door, watching.
“Daisy, you will not speak to her that way,” I tell her, steady and low. “Apologize to Tessa. Now!”
She refuses to budge, biting down on her lower lip until it goes white. Then she spins, her braid whipping again, and bolts inside, disappearing into the house.
Everyone turns to me, waiting for my next move. I glance at Tessa, who looks guilty as if this is her fault when it’s not. It’s mine for not raising my daughter better.
“Are you okay?” I ask even though it’s clear she’s not.
She nods and bends to pick up the workbook. “I am. You should go after Daisy.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Ella offers, jumping in.
“No.” The word leaves my mouth fast before she can make a move.
