I watch him work intently—slicing, dicing, doing whatever that maneuver is where you flip food around in a frying pan. “I guess it should come as no surprise I took her cooking class for years and still can’t cook to save my life. I can turn the oven on, but that’s about where my abilities end.”
“That was the one class I didn’t skip. If I wasn’t on the ranch, I’d probably try to find work in a kitchen or something. I like cooking… and eating.” He aggressively slaps his stomach, which sounds firm. Muscled. Not at all like my squishy belly. “Good thing ’bout being a cowboy is you don’t need to be ripped to get ladies. Dirty jeans and a hat make ’em feral.”
Easy to say when, based on how muscular his arms are and how solid the stomach-slap sounded, heisripped.
“Maybe if the only girls you’re interested in are buckle bunnies.”
“Worked on you, didn’t it?” He winks.
“Alcoholworked on me. Turns out, enough beer and tequila can make me overlook the filthy jeans, sweaty cowboy hat, and arrogant personality.”
I look him over, taking full advantage of his back being turned to me. No dusty jeans or hat in sight. Just clean, fitted Wranglers with a Skoal ring permanently marked in the back pocket, a flannel button-up with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, and thick, tousled mahogany hair.
“If you weren’t pregnant with my kid, I’d offer you a shot right now, Cass. See if you’d overlook some things again.”
“If I wasn’t pregnant with your kid, I never would’ve let you into my house.” I take a slow sip of water and watch the muscle in his forearm as he adjusts the dial on my gas range. The dark veins branching under his tattooed skin send blood directly to the area between my legs.
Shit, this was a bad idea considering how horny I’ve been lately.
“Guess it’s a good thing I knocked you up, then.”
Yup. Bad idea.
Instead of jumping him, I busy myself by setting the table. Reminding myself over and over that I’m turned on because I’m pregnant. Hormones, increased blood flow, and finally feeling less nauseous and tired. That’s the only reason why I can’t stop staring at him like something I want to sink my teeth into. Hooking up might seem worth it now but, when my sex drive slows to normal, it’s bound to fall apart. Which is thelast thing I want to deal with when I’m going to be stuck co-parenting with this guy.
“Red?” I sit down as he shuffles serving dishes around on my small kitchen table, struggling to find room for all the food he’s prepared. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. We probably should’ve covered this when you told me you’re all in but, honestly, I didn’t even think you’d stick around this long. I just… um, I need to know that when you say you’re all in, you know what that means. You’re promising to be here for the baby, kid, teen, and adult. It’s not as simple as being here until you don’t want to be or until they turn eighteen. Even if things are shitty between us or the kid turns into a menace.”
“I know what I signed up for, y’know? No need to explain.”
I shouldn’t have to explain it. But I do. Because apparently nobody had this conversation with my mom when they should’ve, and I refuse to let my baby deal with the same unreliability I did.
I let out a strained exhale. “I’m sure you’re aware it’s always been me and Dad. My mom was in and out of my life for most of my childhood. Sometimes I think I would’ve been better off if she had stayed away altogether. I won’t put my child through that. So, if you have any doubts, leave now and let me do this on my own.”
His face twists. “Not getting rid of me that easy, sweetheart.”
Lost in thought, I hardly register that he just called me sweetheart again.
“Does that mean you understand and plan on being here? Or…”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?” He smiles and slices through a piece of steak. “You’re stuck with me, as much as I’m sure you hate that. Get used to it.”
I’m surprised to find I don’t hate it. Not at all.
And, by the time we’re standing side-by-side washing the dinner dishes, I’menjoyinghanging out with him. The conversation has been easy and fun. We’ve covered important topics like which people we hated in high school, the worst baby names we’ve ever heard, and whethermy kitchen is organized correctly—obviously it is, and Red is enjoying himself too much getting me riled up over it.
“Please.Pleaseexplain why the oven mitts, of all things, don’t go in this drawer next to the oven,” he says—thoroughly tattooed, muscular,all-man, and talking to me through a makeshift oven mitt puppet. Even if this was a conversation worth taking seriously, there’s no way I could when I’m hung up on the idea of sticking googly eyes on that mitt before the next time he comes over.
Is there going to be a next time?My breathing stutters—I definitely want there to be a next time.
“Because that drawer is the only one big enough to fit my Ziploc bag organizer,” I answer matter-of-factly, putting away our clean plates.
He blinks at me, both his mouth and the puppet’s agape. “They come in boxes. Why can’t they just be left that way and put somewhere else?”
“Well, this is more organized. But also, it’s about theaesthetic. Something I wouldn’t expect you to understand, considering you live in a bunkhouse, and your closet is probably a sea of Carhartt and Wrangler.” I swipe the mitt from his hand and tuck it into the drawer where it belongs.
He leans against the counter with raised eyebrows and a goofy grin. “You’re something else, Cassidy.”
It’s the way my name rolls off his tongue, or the playful gleam in his eyes, or the way he’s made me laugh more tonight than Derek did in an entire year, or the corded muscle in his forearms. Or it could be—probably is—a combination that makes my heart race. And, while he has no reason to stay, I don’t think I want him to leave quite yet.
