“This is Lacee,” Sawyer says, softer now. “Lacee, this is Tessa.”
She studies me with the intensity of someone who knows exactly how much power she holds. “You’re the nanny?”
“Potentially,” I say. “I’m also very good at glitter glue removal and pretending broccoli is exciting.”
Her eyes light up. “Dad says broccoli is a lie.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. Sawyer’s gaze snaps to me, something unreadable flickering there.
“She’s artsy,” he explains. “Girly. Smart. Sassy.” A pause. “Ten going on twenty-five.”
Lacee beams. “Dad doesn’t know anything about hair.”
“That is a vicious rumor,” he says dryly.
I watch them together, something warm and unexpected blooming in my chest. He’s out of his depth and knows it. Loves her anyway. Fiercely.
“She lost her mom nine years ago,” he adds, not looking at me. “I’m… learning as I go.” The honesty lands heavy. He gestures toward the kitchen table. “Sit?”
We do. Close enough that I’m aware of the heat of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the faint scent of smoke and soap. He’s handsome in a way that isn’t polished—salt and pepper threaded through his dark hair, stubble roughening his jaw, lines etched by responsibility and loss.
Dangerous, my brain whispers.
“I’m a preschool teacher,” I begin. “Taking the summer off. Needed a change.”
“From Boulder,” he says, nodding at the resume I’ve just passed him. “Big move.”
“Impulsive,” I admit. “But necessary.”
His gaze sharpens. “Running from something?”
“Toward something,” I counter.
That earns me another almost-smile.
We talk logistics. Hours. Meals. Lacee’s routines. Sawyer listens intently, asks smart questions. Protective but not controlling. When Lacee disappears to show me her art supplies, Sawyer watches her go with something like awe.
“She’s everything,” he says quietly. “I just… want someone steady for her. A woman who knows what she’s doing.”
The wordsa womanland with weight.
I swallow. “I can do that.”
He finally looks directly at me. Holds my gaze. Doesn’t flinch.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” I say. “Just graduated.”
A beat.
“And you?”
“Thirty-seven,” he replies quickly. His eyes flicker across my face and then close, soft sigh parting his full lips. Is he thinking what I’m thinking?
Hiring me is responsible.
Wanting me is not.
