Page 8 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
The mall is buzzing in that over-lit, overstimulating way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. People chatter too loudly, music thumps from every corner, perfume samples cling to the air. I keep my hands shoved in my pockets, trying not to look like I’m casing the place instead of shopping.
Meanwhile, Sienna is in her natural habitat. She struts ahead of me like she owns the damn corridor, swinging her tote bag, scanning every window display with the precision of a hawk.
She stops dead in front of a store with cowboy chic splashed across the mannequins before grabbing my hand and dragging me inside.
The sales associate pounces. “Can I help you ladies find anything?”
“Show me your best boots. I’m going to Texas,” Sienna announces.
I duck behind a rack of jackets, smirking as she launches into a full interrogation of leather quality, stitching, and heel height. She’s in her element—bold, charming, impossible to ignore—while I nervously fiddle with a zipper on a jacket I don’t need, ears pricked for anything out of place. A laugh too sharp, phone camera pointed too long. Ever since the threats started, I can’t stop scanning for danger like some paranoid soldier.
“Earth to Tess.” Sienna appears at my side, boots in hand. “What do you think?”
They’re brown, polished, expensive-looking. They’re perfect.
“They scream ‘don’t mess with me,’” I say.
Her grin widens. “Exactly what I was going for.”
She turns to the sales associate and hands her the boots before the shopping spree continues.
Four hours later, we lug shopping bags back to her car, her chatter filling every quiet space. For the afternoon, she’s managed to help me forget what I’ve been running from.
Almost.
By the time we haul the shopping bags up three flights of stairs, I’m sweaty, cranky, and already regretting every single purchase. Sienna fumbles with the keys, juggling her coffee cup and a box that wouldn’t fit in any of her bags.
“Next time,” I pant, “we order online or hire a Sherpa.”
She laughs, sliding the key into the lock. “What, and deprive you of this cardio? You’ll thank me later.”
But the lock doesn’t turn. She frowns, wiggles it.
“That’s weird,” she mutters.
A prickle races up the back of my neck. “What’s weird?”
She tries again, and the door creaks open with barely a twist, like it wasn’t locked at all. My stomach drops.
The air inside is wrong—heavy and off. I feel it before I see it, the moment we step inside.
The living room is gutted. Couch cushions shredded, drawers yanked open, papers scattered across the floor like confetti. The TV on the floor, screen spider-webbed into a hundred cracks. The windows are wide open, curtains whipping in the night air.
For a second, I can’t breathe, like someone has pressed pause on my lungs.
Sienna’s whisper cuts through the silence. “Oh my God.”
Her coffee cup slips from her hand and crashes to the floor, brown liquid seeping into the mess.
I know. I don’t even have to say it out loud. We both know.
Richard.
Because who else? Who else has been sending those messages, those threats that slithered through my phone at all hours? Who else wants to remind me that blowing the whistle wasn’t just a career-ending move but a death sentence?
My pulse pounds in my ears, every shadow looking like him, waiting to pounce.
“Don’t move,” Sienna says, voice shaking but firm. She pulls me back toward the hall. “They could still be here.”
