Page 7 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
I let out a humorless laugh as I sit cross-legged on Sienna’s couch, scrolling through yet another “We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates” email. That makes nine this month. My inbox is a graveyard of rejection.
And then there’s the other inbox.
The one I never admit I check at three in the morning, hand trembling as I open message after message filled with threats. Death threats. Promises written in jagged caps lock about what happens to traitors. Sometimes I can almost smell Richard Kane’s cologne behind the words, feel his presence like a shadow brushing the back of my neck.
I’ve moved twice already, changed cities, locks, and phone numbers, but none of it matters. Somehow, he always finds me.
I rub my temples, trying to ease the ache that never really goes away. My skin prickles with that familiar crawl—paranoia, or maybe instinct—telling me eyes are on me even when I’m alone.
“Still doom scrolling?” Sienna’s voice cuts through my spiral.
She pads in from the kitchen, a mug of tea in hand, her dark curls piled high in a messy bun. She looks maddeningly fresh for someone who stayed up till two, debugging client software.
I close the laptop with a sigh. “Another rejection. That makes—“ I squint, pretending I’ve lost count, ”—a lot.”
“Then stop looking at it,” she says firmly, setting the tea on the coffee table in front of me. Her eyes soften. “You’ll find something. Not every company is terrified of hiring someone who actually has a conscience.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, but I wrap my hands around the warm mug anyway, letting the heat bleed into my fingers.
Sienna flops down beside me, stealing the blanket I’ve cocooned myself in. She tucks her legs under her and leans her head on my shoulder.
This dark-haired beauty is my best friend, my person, and the reason I’m sane even after all I’ve been through. We met freshman year of college during admission at Stanford, hit it off, and found a way to hack the system so we could share a room, and the rest is history. She is the only family I have, literally, since I grew up in the system after my parents died in a car accident when I was seven. I wouldn’t know what to do without her, so I’m blessed to have her in my life.
“You know what you need?” she says, voice muffled.
“A new identity? Witness protection? A plane ticket to New Zealand?”
She snorts. “Retail therapy. The safer, cheaper, way less felony-level option.”
I groan, tipping my head back against the couch. “Si—“
“Don’t ‘Si’ me.” She sits up, eyes flashing that dangerous mix of determination and mischief. “You’ve been holed up here like a sad raccoon for weeks. I refuse to let my best friend turn into a hermit. We’re going shopping. I need new boots for my Texas gig anyway.”
I blink at her. “Texas?”
The name triggers memories of a certain cowboy. The one good thing that came of that night. Too bad it was over the next morning.
“Mm-hm.” She grabs her phone and waves it like proof. “Got a client out there who’s too paranoid to trust anyone local. He’s flying me out for a few weeks and paying stupid money.”
She makes it sound so easy, but then again, she’s Sienna Carter, queen of freelancing. She floats from one contract to the next, no strings, no baggage, like the digital nomad she always dreamed of being. Meanwhile, I’m choking on the ashes of my old life, wondering if I should even bother applying to jobs anymore.
“You’re really going all the way to Texas for one gig?” I ask, trying to keep the envy out of my voice.
She shrugs. “Why not? Sunshine, cowboy hats, barbecue. What’s not to love?”
I roll my eyes, but she’s already on her feet, hands on her hips like she’s gearing up for battle.
“Come on, Tess. It’s one afternoon. We’ll hit the shops, grab a coffee, maybe even laugh at something stupid for once. You remember laughing, right?”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. She’s impossible to resist when she’s like this, all relentless optimism and stubborn cheer.
“Fine,” I grumble, pushing off the couch. “But if I end up broke and crying in a Zara changing room, I’m blaming you.”
Sienna beams. “Deal. Now, put on something cute. You’ve been in sweatpants long enough.”
As she disappears into her room to grab her bag, I linger for a moment in the living room. My laptop sits closed on the table, the weight of rejection letters and threats pressed between its sleek silver shell. For a second, I almost reach for it again. Almost.
Instead, I take a breath and let it go. Because maybe, just maybe, a little normal isn’t the worst idea.
