Page 83 of Holiday Hire

My deceased wife and I were the same age. But Phoebe's ten years younger than me.

I'm sure she thinks I'm too old for her.

We probably have nothing in common.

Why am I even thinking these thoughts?

Jesus, I need to get a grip.

I rise, put my plate in the soapy water, then grab my cowboy hat off the hook. I put it on, announcing, "Time for work."

"Are you sure you're going to be okay today?" Phoebe asks, her face filled with concern.

"Yep. Just be ready to leave around five tonight. Okay?"

She gives me a tiny salute. "Aye, aye, sir."

I chuckle and go outside. I take a deep breath, breathing in the fresh air.

It's a true November day. The air's crisp, but the sun's out. The wind has picked up, but I welcome it. I spent so much time in my bedroom this week I thought the walls would close in around me.

Within minutes, I throw myself into my duties, trying to catch up on things I got behind on. Then, I spend several hours at the corral, running the horses with my brothers.

Mason states, "You bounced back quickly compared to yesterday."

"I feel a lot better."

"Well, it looks like you were in good hands." His lips twist.

My gut flips. Phoebe's face appears in my mind, and my blood heats. I reprimand, "Don't get any ideas."

He chuckles and then starts shouting at one of the trainers. "You're not leaning in! Come on, you know better than this!"

The day goes by quickly but also slowly. I'm excited to go to the races tonight. I tell myself it's only because of the thrill of seeingmy horses compete, but it's a lie. I can't wait to spend more time alone with Phoebe. It's nice when it's just us.

Us.

The thought of Phoebe and I together shocks me. I don't know why I'm thinking any of these thoughts. I continue to remind myself that she's my kids' nanny and it's just a friendly bet.

I chuckle, thinking about how badly I want to paint the house. As I lay in bed all week, I couldn't help but stare at the tan walls, wishing they had some color. I kept telling myself it was because I was stuck inside, but everything looked as blah as I felt.

When four thirty arrives, I grab a handful of a dozen flowers from the garden and then go into the house. I put them in a vase and make my way down the hall.

Phoebe steps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body. The D and A inked on her chest appear shiny on her damp skin.

My pulse beats between my ears.

She glances at the flowers. "Those are beautiful."

"They're for you."

Her eyes widen. "Oh?"

My anxiety tightens in my chest, and I'm suddenly speechless. My gaze darts back to her tattoo.

She cautiously asks, "They're really for me?"

Why didn't I think about what to say to her?

---