Chapter 17
TESSA
From the elevated view of my bedroom balcony, I catch myself staring at him again.
Not overtly, or enough for him to notice, but long enough that my heart flutters and stomach does that ridiculous flip I’ve been trying to ignore.
Jace, out by the corral, sitting majestically on his chair, with that impossibly perfect smirk, brushing a stray lock of hair back as he watches Daisy chatter on and on.
God, I’m falling for him.
I clamp down on the thought before it can grow, forcing my shoulders back and focusing on the feel of the warm sun on my arms, the soft smell of hay, and whatever the cooks are whipping up downstairs.
I can’t. Not here, not now. I’m supposed to be the nanny, the tutor, the girl who keeps Daisy safe and occupied until I can leave. Jace is a distraction I can’t afford.
Inhaling deeply, I make a silent promise to step back and keep it professional with him. I’ll only smile when necessary, but I won’t linger, flirt, or let myself get caught in this—whatever this is.
It’s easier said than done.
Even as I tighten my resolve, I can’t erase the memory of our small touches during the horseback lesson, the way his hands lingered just a second too long on my waist, the way his eyes watched me like I mattered more than I should.
No, Tessa! Remember, boundaries. Step back.
I grab my phone from the table in front of me, thumb hovering over Sienna’s name. I need to hear a friendly voice, someone who can remind me that I’m not losing my mind, though judging by how flustered I feel around Jace, I might be.
“Hi, Tess?” She answers immediately, as if she’s been waiting for me.
“Hey,” I mumble, trying to sound casual.
“Hey! How’s the newest cowgirl in Wrangler Creek, Texas, doing? Broken any cowboy hearts yet?” She teases, her voice laced with amusement.
More like he’s breaking mine.
I groan into the phone, covering my face. “Si! I swear, you’re impossible.”
“Impossible? Me? You’re the one who sounds like you’re dying over there,” she shoots back, teasingly.
“Maybe I am.”
“Talk to me, what’s going on?”
I debate telling her, then recall that this is my best friend. We don’t keep secrets from each other, and she might be able to pull me back to earth from fantasy land.
“I think I might have fallen for Jace,” I blurt out.
“Sorry, I missed that last part. Say it slower this time.”
I sigh, gazing up at the sky. “I’m falling in love with him, Si.”
Silence follows from her end, and I almost think I’ve lost her until she chimes in a moment later. “No.”
“Yes.”
“The D.C. cowboy?”
“Yes.”
“The CEO?”
“Yes.”
“Single dad Jace Morgan?”
“Yes. I tried to stay professional. But—“ I cut myself off, huffing.
Sienna laughs, loud and knowing. “Uh-huh. Professional? Yeah, right. Look, girl, I get it. He’s attractive, tall, gruff, and probably smells like adventure or horses or…” She giggles, cutting herself off.
“Stop!” I snap, embarrassed, feeling my cheeks heat.
“Nope. Can’t stop. But seriously,” she continues, her tone shifting, “you need to remember why you’re there. Daisy. The job. Your safety. Focus on that. Jace? Yeah, he’s hot, but he’s not the priority. Nip those feelings in the bud. Iron Stallion is not forever.”
I swallow, nodding even though she can’t see me. “Yeah… you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” she says smugly. “Now get your butt back to work, tutor and nanny extraordinaire. Focus. Don’t let your feelings get in the way.”
I laugh softly, letting her words sink in. “Okay. Okay. I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” she says. “Call me if you need more tough love.”
After I hang up with Sienna, I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, feeling lighter somehow. Sienna always knows how to put things into perspective. I need to focus and stick to why I’m here.
I drag myself off the bed and switch gears. If I can’t stop thinking about Jace, maybe I can at least think about something else. Something I can control.
Daisy. The reason I’m still here.
I pull out the binder I started for her; it’s half empty, half chaos. There’s a math worksheet folded like origami, a spelling list with doodles in the margins, and a sticky note that says ask about volcano project.
I sigh. “Okay, kiddo,” I mutter under my breath, “time for a system.”
For the next hour, I lose myself in the kind of focus that used to keep me sane in D.C. I sort through her assignments, set up a schedule, and even color-code the folders with the precision of a bored IT specialist who has way too much time on her hands.
Red for Math.
Blue for Reading.
Yellow for Science.
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?”
“Daisy…” I start carefully. “Your dad might—“
“Just a little,” she insists, bouncing now. “He won’t even notice! He never looks at the ends. He just says ‘brush your hair, sweetheart’ and moves on.”
I can’t help but snort again. “You’ve clearly studied your target.”
Jace is more attentive than she gives him credit for.
“Please, Tessa.” Her voice softens, small and hopeful. “You said I should try new things. Be creative. That’s what this is, right?”
Okay, fine. That’s emotional blackmail, but damn if it isn’t effective.
“Alright,” I sigh, grabbing another towel. “But we’re going subtle. I only have pink, though, and if your dad asks, we call it… sun-kissed.”
She squeals so loud I almost drop the bowl.
Ten minutes later, Daisy’s sitting on a stool with her hair sectioned into neat parts, and I’m painting on streaks of pink at the ends. She keeps twisting to see in the mirror, chattering nonstop.
“Does it sting?”
“Nope, not unless you’ve secretly been setting your head on fire.”
“Can I tell Ella about it?”
“Only if you want her to rat us out.”
“What about Grandpa Hank?”
“Oh, he’s probably gonna love it. He looks like the type who’d say, ‘Back in my day, hair was hair!’”
She bursts into laughter so contagious that I end up laughing too. The dye gets on her cheek, then mine, and by the time we’re done, we both look like we’ve lost a paintball match.
We rinse, dry, and the mirror reveals our handiwork. Daisy’s curls glint with soft pink ends, catching the light like sunset candy.
Her smile is so wide it hurts to look at. “I love it,” she whispers.
Something squeezes in my chest, a warmth I didn’t invite but can’t seem to stop. “Me too,” I admit quietly. “You look… like you.”
She turns, eyes bright. “You look like you too.”
And for a minute, between the laughter, the towel-draped chaos, and the pink dye-stained sink, it almost feels like I belong here.
When Daisy finally runs off to show Grandpa Hank her new hair, my room goes still again. The echo of her laughter fades down the hall, replaced by the low hum of evening cicadas and the faint sound of horses neighing in the stables.
I glance around the bathroom. There are dye-streaked towels everywhere, pink fingerprints on the sink, and one of Daisy’s hair ties in my pocket. It’s chaos. Warm, soft, human chaos.
I should clean it up, but I just… stop.
In the mirror, my reflection stares back, hair freshly pink again, brighter than before, cheeks flushed from laughter. For a second, I don’t recognize her. She looks lighter. Softer.
Not the woman who runs or the one who hides behind firewalls and fake names.
Just… me.
I lean on the counter, tracing the rim of the bowl with my finger until it leaves a faint smear of pink.
God, I’m getting attached.
To the girl who calls me her best friend after two weeks. To this ranch that smells like hay and cinnamon coffee. To the man whose voice still echoes in my chest long after he’s left the room.
I told myself I could keep a distance, be grateful, safe, and then disappear when it’s time.
But safety feels like this now: laughter, hair dye, and a little girl trusting me enough to let me near her heart.
And that makes it dangerous.
Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to run.