Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Emily
How did I manage to talk myself into being the fucking nanny?
The second I’m back in the guest room, I face-plant onto the bed.
I close my eyes and replay the whole conversation, cringing at every word.
I have a master’s degree in structural engineering.
I can make sure skyscrapers don’t fall with my eyes closed, and here I am, signing up to be a live-in nanny for a sweet ten-year-old boy and his grumpy ass dad.
I grab the pale blue throw pillow and groan into it.
There’s no denying my options are limited.
At least this way, I get to keep myself busy and do what I’m trained to do in some capacity.
Kassie is right. I will be damn useful here if they let me be.
A ranch like this needs constant monitoring in terms of infrastructure, and thanks to my dad, I’m a whiz at fixing cars.
Plus, I can entertain a ten-year-old because, let’s face it, I’m a hoot.
But then there’s Wyatt.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
I’m supposed to be looking at him like a boss, or a grieving friend, but my brain keeps betraying me.
I’ve started to notice things I shouldn’t, like the way his forearms look when he’s got his sleeves rolled up, all corded muscle and dirt.
Or that low baritone of his rumbling voice that seems to vibrate right between my thighs.
But he’s broken. He’s grieving. He is officially 100% off-limits. But God, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. This feels dangerous, and being his ‘nanny’ is going to be a special kind of torture.
I’m lying here, trying to wrestle my thoughts into submission, when a soft knock hits the door.
“Emily?”
It’s Owen.
I roll myself upright, the matching duck-egg blue comforter rustling beneath me as I move. I turn the antique doorknob, noticing that every inch of this room was clearly decorated by Evelyn with love, and it shows.
“Hey, Owen. Everything okay?”
“Yes, perfect. I’m sorry to disturb you, but dinner’s ready.”
“Oh—I thought it was a family dinner,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.
“It is.”
I blink. “And you want me…?”
“We’d love for you to join us.”
The words hit me right in the feels. I can’t remember the last time I was actually part of a family dinner. My dad and I sitting in front of the TV most nights with takeout probably didn’t count. The invitation feels like a warm hand on my shoulder, pulling me into the fold.
“Oh…oh yeah, sure.” I look down at the jeans and T-shirt I’ve had on all day, suddenly aware there’s still dirt on my knees. “I’ll just change real quick and be right down.”
Owen nods, pleased with my answer, and turns on his heel.
I lift an armpit and take a sniff. Yuck.
I whip off my T-shirt and quickly roll on some deodorant.
Digging through my drawer, I find a crisp white tee and pull it over my head, following it up with a pale green satin, mid-length skirt.
I have no idea what the etiquette for a Miller family dinner is, but a mix of casual and clean will have to do.
My wardrobe isn’t exactly ranch-friendly, but I’ve got enough jeans and tees to tide me over until I can figure out how to be some kind of nanny-engineer hybrid in the dirt.
I check my reflection in the mirror and pause. I suddenly notice how much weight I’ve lost lately. The stress of the estate, losing my job, and the move has taken its toll, because this skirt used to be way tighter around the hips.
Silver linings and all that, I guess.
My cheeks have caught the sun from the days I’m spending outside, which I don’t actually hate. It makes me look alive for the first time in weeks. I swipe on some pink Vaseline over my lips, give my hair a quick fluff, and then stop, staring at my reflection.
Jesus, Emily. Who are you even doing this for?
I’m an idiot, because I already know the answer. The answer is a name I’m not allowed to say, so I shake it off, square my shoulders, and head for the door.
I can hear the rumble of voices coming from the dining room as I descend the creaking, solid wood stairs. There’s a new voice in the mix. It’s lighter, more animated than Wyatt’s gravelly tone.
I take a breath, feeling like I’m about to make some kind of stage debut, and push open the door.
Five heads turn toward me in unison, and I’m suddenly feeling extremely exposed.
The scene is surprisingly domestic. Owen is setting down a large roast chicken at the center of the table, and a man who must be Jackson is leaning back against the chair with a beer in his hand.
He looks like a younger, less dirt-worn version of Wyatt and still has that little dimple on his cheek he had as a kid.
I remember because it’s the one he used to flash right before he did something wicked that would have me running and screaming.
And then there’s Wyatt himself.
He’s sitting at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled up, looking exactly like the reason I spent five minutes picking out a skirt.
I feel his eyes track me with a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare feet and white, polished toes up the length of my green skirt, over my breasts, before finally landing on my lips.
The second his gaze hits my eyes, he snaps away as if he’s been caught looking at something forbidden.
Jackson is the first to move. He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “There’s no way this is little Emily Callahan. Last time I saw her, she had pigtails and a constant scrape on her knee.”
Jackson Miller.
He was always the biggest tease when we were kids, usually the one who instigated the frog chasing.
There are only a few months between Wyatt, Jackson, and me—Wyatt being the eldest, me in the middle, and Jax the baby of the trio.
Kassie was the leader of the pack, not quite two years older than the rest of us.
Evelyn Miller was a saint who thrived on the chaos of little feet finding their way down her hallways.
Jackson rounds the table and pulls me into a welcoming hug, which I quickly return. He smells more intentional than Wyatt, with a slightly crisp and polished edge, whereas Wyatt’s scent is something deeper, earthier, and purely masculine.
“Yeah, the boobs really came in, didn’t they?” Kassie quips with a snort, making my mouth fall open in shock.
“Kassie, not at the dinner table,” Owen scolds, though his tone lacks any real bite.
I widen my eyes in mock disbelief and laugh. Kassie has clearly developed a dry sense of humor. Probably a defense mechanism from growing up surrounded by so much testosterone.
“Jackson, it’s so good to see you again.” I smile warmly, stepping back to take him in.
He’s so much taller than he was at six years old. Out of all the Miller men, he might actually be the tallest. He has the same trademark Miller jaw. But his hair is a darker shade than Wyatt’s and leans closer to Kassie’s golden brown like their mothers did.
From the corner of my eye, I feel Wyatt watching us. His stare is heavy and unrelenting, and I sense a flicker of unease in him. Maybe a touch of protective territorialism because his brother is being so welcoming.
“You too, Emily.” Jackson pulls out a chair for me to sit next to him, directly opposite Wyatt. Wyatt’s brow furrows, and he immediately looks away. “I hear you’ve been in the big corporate world in Portland, right?”
“Uh, yeah, something like that. On a little sabbatical, so to speak,” I say, rolling my eyes. I know Owen has likely already filled him in on the messy details.
Jackson nods sympathetically.
Yeah, he knows. “So Jackson, what do you do? I’m assuming that chasing girls with frogs in your pocket didn’t become a full-time career?”
The table chuckles at the memory of Jackson torturing me with my well-documented phobia.
“Well, there are a lot fewer frogs involved, but I do still treat animals. I graduated as a veterinarian last year.”
“Oh wow. You really have built an empire here, Owen,” I joke, nodding toward the patriarch.
“You know it.” Owen chuckles. “Why do you think I let you stay here?”
Another round of laughter erupts.
But not from Wyatt. He’s still sporting a look that resembles a full-blown scowl. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jackson.
“What’s got you scowling more than usual, big brother?” Jax asks, leaning in.
“He forgot me at school. Again,” Alex says, stabbing a butter knife into his bread roll and massacring it in the process.
Wyatt shoots his son an exasperated look, a dark flush rising through his cheeks and up to his ears. I get the sense he’s used to being called out by his firecracker of a son, but doing it in front of me is clearly stinging his pride.
I feel the need to cut in gently, to take the heat off him. “Oh, yeah, but it’s okay, buddy. Your dad and I talked, and I’m going to be the one picking you up and taking you to school for a while.”
Alex’s eyes widen with pure glee. “Seriously?” He practically bounces in his seat. “Do we get to take the blue car every day? Oh my god, my friends are going to think I’m so cool. Uncle Jax, did you see Emily’s car? It’s way cooler than Dad’s!”
“Ah, so that explains the fancy-lookin’ go-kart outside then,” Jackson teases.
I shoot him a sarcastic smile. Man, this family really has it in for my pride and joy.
“If you’re going to be driving him, I’d rather you take something safer than that thing.” Wyatt’s stern, gravelly voice cuts through the teasing like a blunt blade.
I stop mid-laugh, shooting him a look of surprise. The playful atmosphere in the dining room suddenly shifts, turning heavy and thick with a tension that makes me uncomfortable.
Everyone around the table looks at him, mildly surprised by the sudden heat in his voice. It felt more like an order than a suggestion. One fueled by something that sounded a lot like overprotectiveness. My cheeks begin to tingle, a flush creeping up my neck.
“Oh—oh, yeah, of course,” I stammer, trying to regain my footing. “Actually, I noticed the brake pad needs replacing on mine, so I can use one of the trucks if that’s better for you.”
Alex’s face falls instantly. “Oh man, the trucks don’t have cool lights inside and speakers that make your insides jiggle!”
“Alex, enough,” Wyatt mutters, though he doesn’t look at his son. He’s looking at me, or rather, he’s looking at my lips again, with his jaw so tight I can see a muscle pump in his neck.
Jackson leans back in his chair, his eyes darting between his brother and me. A slow, dangerous smirk curls on his lips. He’s a veterinarian. He’s seen enough spooked animals to know that Wyatt is protecting his territory here.
“Since when are you so worried about safety ratings, Wy?” Jackson asks, his tone deceptively light. “Dad used to let us ride in the back of the pickup when we were ten. And you let Alex ride Maverick, who’s about as predictable as a lightning strike.”
Wyatt’s eyes snap to his brother. “The car is too low. It’s a death trap on these back roads if a deer jumps out. End of story.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Shit. I didn’t even think. Of course, he doesn’t want his son in that car. Despite me being more than confident in my driving abilities, Wyatt has been burned one time too many.
Owen clears his throat, sensing the storm clouds gathering. “He’s got a point about the deer, Emily. But I think we can find a middle ground. Wyatt, let her take the SUV tomorrow. It’s got the clearance, and Alex still gets his speakers.”
I nod slowly, still feeling Wyatt’s gaze burning into me. “The SUV is fine. I just want to make sure Alex is safe.”
“Good. That’s settled then.” Wyatt ends the conversation with a finality that doesn’t invite any more talk on the subject. He pushes some meat around on his plate for a few seconds before pushing his seat back with a decisive, harsh scrape against the hardwood floor.
“I’m going to go check the stall doors in the south stable,” he mutters, not quite looking at anyone. “I’ll be back later.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He grabs his hat from the hook and walks out of the dining room.
Alex doesn’t even look surprised. He looks at his food and raises an eyebrow at me as if to say here we go again.
Owen shakes his head, and I can’t help but feel that Wyatt’s mood swings are a permanent fixture here. Something the rest of the family has learned to walk on eggshells around.
Jackson turns to me, his expression softening into something apologetic. “Ignore him, Em. He’s…well, he’s just going through some stuff. He’s got a lot on his shoulders.”
I shrug nonchalantly, trying to play it cool even though my heart is still doing a nervous thrum in my chest. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I get it.” I force a smile, but I can feel that it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“It’s good to have you back here, Emily. Really,” Jackson says with a kind tone. He’s clearly sensing that I feel a little scorched by the heat Wyatt just threw my way.
“Thanks, Jax,” I murmur.
I turn back to my plate and try to finish my food, but my appetite is gone.