Chapter 5
Lucy
Tate Thatcher might hate me, but at least I’m Fern’s best friend. Her best friend who is currently being showered with daisies and pieces of grass.
I giggle as she yanks another fistful of green grass from the ground, tossing it into the air above my head.
We’re on the grassy hill behind the house sitting under the shade of a large tree.
It’s an unusually warm day for May in Montana.
The sun’s out, and it’s warm enough to forego a jacket.
There are even daisies spotting the greenery.
“Does Buttercup want some grass too?” I ask of her small, plastic pony, holding it up for her to see.
She answers by dumping a handful of grass on Buttercup.
“Play ring around the rosie with me!” Fern demands, and with a snort, I get to my feet. We grasp hands, and I dutifully sing “Ring Around the Rosie” with her while skipping in a circle. Unsurprisingly, she wants to do this quite a few more times, and I find myself getting dizzier and dizzier.
“One more time!” Fern demands for the fifth time.
“Okay,” I huff. “But last one.”
We skip around in another circle, Fern bouncing up and down as jubilantly as she can.
But too late, I notice that we’ve veered away from our original position, and Fern’s foot catches on a tree stump.
I dive forward, pulling her into my arms to break her fall.
We tumble to the grass, Fern giggling and thankfully unhurt, but it’s then I notice a sharp pain in my ankle.
As Fern scrambles to her feet, running off to play with her plastic ponies, I lean forward to examine my foot. I wince as I try to twist it this way and that. I must’ve stepped on it wrong. Oh well.
I move to stand, but as soon as I put weight on my foot, hot pain radiates through my leg, and I collapse back to the ground with a hiss.
Fern glances back at me. “Are you okay?” she asks, her tiny voice tinged with a concern that melts my heart.
“I’m fine, honey,” I assure her. “Just stepped wrong.” I try again to scramble to my feet, but that same radiating pain overwhelms me, and I’m forced to sit back down.
Damnit, I think to myself, gritting my teeth. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt my ankle this badly. I try to stand one more time, just out of sheer stubbornness, but am ultimately unsuccessful. Tate Thatcher is really going to hate me now. What’s a nanny who can’t run after a toddler? Like, literally?
“Should I go get Grandma?” Fern asks tentatively.
I glance between us and the ranch house. It’s only about a hundred feet away, and I can watch Fern the whole way there. Presumably Theresa is inside. I haven’t seen much of her today.
I still don’t like the idea of sending Fern off on her own though. But other than crawling back to the house with her, I’m unsure what else there is to do.
“Oooh, Daddy!” she calls suddenly, and I follow her gaze to see Tate’s pickup truck coming down the dirt road that leads to the cattle fields. He must be coming home for lunch.
Shit. Just the savior I need. I try to breathe deeply, tamping down the embarrassment.
“Fern, don’t run toward the truck!” I command as she darts forward. She listens, but only half so, tentatively walking down the hill and waving her arms.
At first, when Tate gets out of the truck, he simply waves back, but then he notices the insistence with which Fern is calling him. “Daddy, help!” she cries.
With a frown I can see from here—partially because I assume he’s always frowning—he jogs around the house and up the slope.
“What’s going on, sweetheart?” he asks when he reaches Fern, taking her little hand in his.
She leads him toward where I sit, sprawled awkwardly on the ground. “Lucy got hurt,” she informs him.
His frown deepens, and I wish the earth would swallow me up. I know exactly what he’s thinking. Probably that I’m utterly useless as a nanny. It hasn’t even been a week yet, and I’ve injured myself into incompetence.
He strides toward me, squatting once he reaches me. “What happened?” he asks.
“I, uh … tripped,” I answer, trying not to meet his gaze. It’d be a lot easier to have a conversation with him if he didn’t have that awful scowl covering his face. “I think my ankle might be sprained.”
“She tripped saving me!” Fern exclaims.
Tate glances over his shoulder at her, then back to me. “Really?” he asks.
I scoff, waving off her comment. “She was falling, I grabbed her, we both fell, and … I must’ve stepped on it wrong,” I explain.
He nods, his brows furrowed together as he stares down at my foot. “Think you can walk with my help?” he finally asks.
It’s the inevitable option I was dreading. But I suppose it’s the only one. “I think so.”
He nods, standing and then extending his hand.
It’s calloused, a bit dirty, and … big. I widen my eyes slightly, shocked at myself for even noticing that.
Avoiding eye contact, I reach for his hand.
He clasps mine and pulls me to my feet, immediately looping my arm over his shoulder and skating his around my waist.
As our bodies touch, I suck in a breath of air, refusing to let it out, every nerve of mine on fire.
“Okay, let’s try a step,” Tate says. And is it just me, or does he sound hoarse?
Guided by Tate, I take a tentative step forward and immediately regret it as pain radiates through my ankle. I hiss and slump against him. And before I have time to think up any next moves, Tate leans down, hooking his free arm underneath my knees, and scoops me up into his arms.
I yelp in surprise.
“It’s just gonna be faster if I carry you,” he says gruffly.
“Okay,” I manage to squeak out.
Tate turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. “Follow me, Fern,” he instructs as he begins making his way down the hill.
It takes a few steps for me to realize that I’m not breathing, my limbs as stiff as can be.
I try to relax, try not to think about every part of my body that’s currently touching Tate’s.
About how I can see the beginnings of scruff growing along his jaw and lower cheek.
How strong his arms feel wrapped around me.
About how he’s barely breaking a sweat—like he carries women around every day.
I wonder if he feels as awkward as I do.
Probably not. The man seems irritated and put out by pretty much everything. This probably just feels like yet another annoyance in his life.
Fern skips along beside us, pausing every now and again to pluck a daisy from the grass.
We make our way to the house where Tate opens the front door and steps aside long enough for Fern to run inside.
Then he carries me over the threshold like a sack of potatoes, and instead of stopping in the living room like I expect, he takes a sharp turn down the hallway and enters … his room?
My mouth opens in a question that refuses to form.
When he crosses his bedroom to the attached bathroom on the other side, it begins to make sense. But still—I don’t particularly like the idea of my injury being attended to by this man.
He flips on the light switch and gently sets me down so I’m sitting on the available counter space right beside the sink. Without a word, he drops to his knees, opening up the cabinets under the sink and pulling out a bag.
“You don’t need to …” I start, shaking my head.
Instead of responding, he simply reaches for my sneaker, grasping the base of my calf with his other hand and then gently prying the shoe free. I hiss softly in pain, and his eyes dart to mine, dark and … concerned? More like irritation, most likely.
“I can handle this on my own,” I protest. “Or maybe your mom?” Honestly three-year-old Fern would be preferable. Something about Tate just pushes me off balance. Has me catching my breath, stumbling over words, losing my mind.
I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I’m in Tate Thatcher’s private bathroom.
Attached to his bedroom. I can see his bed through the open doorway.
He sleeps with a quilt. He has a few articles of clothing casually thrown over a chair in the corner of the room.
It isn’t exactly neat in there, but it’s not messy either.
“You ever sprained an ankle before?” Tate simply asks while slowly inspecting the foot that he’s now freed of my sock as well.
“No,” I mumble.
He hums to himself, reaching into the bag beside him to pull out a roll of medical sport tape. “Should be fine in a few days as long as you take care of it. We can always go to a doctor to make sure if you prefer—”
“No,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. His gaze is back on mine again, boring holes right through me. I wish I could melt into the counter.
He focuses his attention back on my ankle, firmly holding my leg with one hand while the other slowly begins wrapping the tape around it.
I try not to think about the odd blend of sensations—my ankle aches as he continues wrapping the tape, but the pressure of his warm fingers feels nice on my skin.
I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I say, and it comes out barely more than a whisper.
“About what?” he asks without looking at me.
“Uh …” I shrug. “I mean, you just hired a nanny, and within a few days, I’m useless.” I chuckle, but it comes out humorless and slightly scared. I am scared. Scared of him. Although I can’t quite put my finger on why.
His frown deepens, his concentration still on my ankle. “You’re not useless,” he says.
“What good is a nanny who can’t run after a three-year-old?”
He grips my leg tighter, almost imperceptibly. “Your ankle will be fine in a few days. In the meantime, Mom can help you. And all Fern really needs is someone to entertain her. Read to her, play with dolls—you’ll find something to do.”
He’s right, I suppose. I can station myself somewhere in the living room and keep an eye on Fern while she cycles through all her toys, coloring books, and movies.
“She’s a sweet kid,” I find myself saying.
For possibly the first time since meeting him, the frown on Tate’s face seems to fade. “Yeah, she really is.”