Page 2 of Curvy Girl and the Single Dad Cowboy

"On my way," he says, and she beams like he's promised her the moon.

As she skips back to her masterpiece, I check my watch again. Twenty-three minutes late.

"This nanny better be Mary Poppins herself to make up for this," I mutter.

Aaron stands, stretching his tall frame. "Give her a chance, Vince. For Lily's sake."

He's right, of course. This isn't about me or my comfort or my pride. It's about making sure Lily has what she needs—a female presence, someone who can answer the questions I fumble through, someone who might ease the ache of her mother's absence in ways I simply can't.

"Fine," I concede. "But if she's not here in the next ten minutes, I'm calling the agency."

Aaron hums again as he follows Lily's path to the living room. I'm left alone in the kitchen with all my doubts, and waiting for a stranger who's about to barge into our carefully balanced lives.

I pour myself another cup of coffee, black and bitter, just the way life's been serving me lately. The kitchen clock ticks away, loud in the quiet between Lily's distant chatter with Aaron. Twenty-eight minutes late now. I've about made up my mind to call the agency when a hesitant knock sounds at the front door.

"Finally," I mutter, setting my mug down with more force than necessary.

I stride through the hallway, rehearsing the lecture on punctuality and first impressions that this would-be nanny is about to receive. Professional relationships start with respect, and respect starts with being on time. I've got it all lined up, ready to establish boundaries right from the get-go.

I swing the door open, mouth already forming the first cutting words—and stop cold.

The woman on my porch is nothing like the seasoned, maternal figure I'd been picturing. She's young—much younger than I expected—wearing a simple blue dress that brings out eyes the color of the sky in summer. And she's a mess.

Her chestnut hair has escaped whatever style she attempted this morning, damp tendrils clinging to her flushed face. She'sliterally sweating from every pore, her dress showing dark patches at the collar and under her arms.

But it's her expression that catches me off guard—determined despite her obvious distress, and genuinely apologetic.

"Mr. Covington?" she pants, trying to catch her breath. "I'm so sorry—" She stops, gulping air. "My car broke down—about three miles back—tried calling but no service—I walked—" Each phrase comes between desperate breaths.

I stand there, momentarily stunned. "You walked? Three miles? In this heat?"

She nods, attempting to smooth her hair back with shaking hands. "I didn't want to be any later than I already was. I'm Charlotte Wilson. Your new nanny." She extends her hand, then seems to think better of it, noticing how sweaty her palm is. "Sorry, I'm a mess. Not exactly the first impression I was hoping to make."

The lecture I had prepared evaporates. This woman walked three miles down a dusty country road, in what must be ninety-degree heat, just to not stand me up. I'm unsure whether it's admirable or concerning.

"You could have heatstroke," I say instead of introducing myself properly. "Come in before you collapse on my porch."

I step aside, and she murmurs a thank you as she crosses the threshold. Up close, I can see how her makeup has mostly melted away, revealing a scatter of freckles across her nose. She's trying so hard to look composed, but her legs are visibly trembling.

"Kitchen's this way," I say, leading her through the house. "You need water."

"I'm really very sorry about this," she says to my back, her voice steadier now that she's catching her breath. "I left with plenty of time, but my car just... died. Completely dead. I tried the engine over and over but—"

"What kind of car?" I interrupt, my mechanical side curious.

"A 2010 Honda Civic. It's been reliable until today, which is just my luck."

We reach the kitchen, and I gesture for her to sit at the table while I grab a glass from the cabinet. "Probably your starter. Those models had issues with them."

I fill the glass with ice water and set it in front of her, noticing how she's trying not to look too eager as she reaches for it. She takes several long gulps, and I find myself watching the line of her throat as she swallows.

"Thank you," she says, setting the glass down. "You know cars?"

"Enough to get by. Can't always wait for a mechanic out here." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. "So, Ms. Wilson—"

"Charlotte, please."

"Charlotte. You walked three miles to be here."

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