Page 41 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
Pink for “Things Daisy Pretends Not to Know but Totally Does.”
By the time I’m done, the table looks like a miniature command center. I even print a few flashcards.
Each card comes out perfectly aligned, crisp, and predictable. And that, right there, is comfort.
Numbers don’t lie. Ink doesn’t pull away when you get too close. Paper doesn’t make your heart race for no reason.
I stack the flashcards neatly, line up the markers, and breathe in deep. This I can handle. I can’t fix the way my stomach flips when Jace smiles, or the ache that creeps in when Daisy hugs me, but I can make sure she aces her next spelling test.
That’s something real. Something useful.
When I’m done, I glance out the window. Jace and Daisy are still out by the corral, only now he’s off his wheelchair. He’s crouched beside her, pointing toward one of the horses while she laughs and throws her arms around his neck.
The sight punches the air out of my chest, but I force myself to turn back to the flashcards. Focus, Tessa. Focus on what you came here to do.
Because falling for your boss is not part of the plan.
After running out of things to do for Daisy, I decide to do something I’ve been putting off for a while. Fixing my roots. Pushing my chair back, I wander back into my room, directly to the bathroom, and get started.
An hour later, the bathroom smells like coconut shampoo and rebellion. I’ve got a plastic bowl balanced on the sink, a towel draped around my shoulders, and my fingers stained pink because I still haven’t learned to wear gloves from the start.
I hum under my breath as I section my hair, checking in the mirror for the patches of brown that have started to peek through. I’ve had pink hair since I was fifteen, after watching Trolls and falling in love with Poppy. I guess I was trying to manifest her positive energy into my dark life before I turned into Branch.
Halfway through brushing on the dye, I hear the door creak open.
“Tessa?” Daisy calls out from the door.
“Hi, Bug.” I smile, turning to face her.
Ever since she apologized and we talked, we’ve grown so much closer, and I love it. Our truce has worked out for the two of us.
Her jaw drops at the sight of me. “You’re painting your hair!”
I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”
She steps closer, inspecting the mess on the counter like it’s a crime scene. “Is that permanent? Like, forever-forever?”
“Not unless I move to Mars and stop using shampoo.”
She giggles, perching on the edge of the tub. “It’s so cool. Daddy would freak out if I did that.”
I freeze mid-brush. “Yeah, I’m guessing he’s not a pink-hair kind of dad.”
“Oh no,” she says, shaking her head solemnly. “He says colors like that are for people ‘trying to make a statement.’”
I arch an eyebrow. “And what’s wrong with making a statement?”
She grins. “Nothing. I like it. It’s like your hair’s saying, ‘don’t mess with me, I bite.’”
That earns her a laugh. “That’s… actually not far off.”
There’s a beat of silence before she blurts, “Can you do mine?”
I blink. “What?”
“My hair! Just the ends. Please?” She scoots forward, eyes bright and pleading. “You could do, like, purple or blue or—oh!—mint green!”
I can practically hear Jace’s voice in my head. “You let my seven-year-old walk around looking like a unicorn crime scene?”
