“What’s the point in waiting?”
“Because it’s special,” I protest and strain my arm to reach the envelope, but it’s no use. “Too special to open in the parking lot of a strip mall next to a KFC and a liquor store.”
“What if I grabbed some chicken and beer… root beer for you. Isn’t Derek from Sheridan? Could go sit on the hood of his car while we eat and open it up—for old times’ sake. Would that be special enough, sweetheart?” He smirks down at me, his eyes falling on my lips. A teasing smile and pet name that I’ve always thought were condescending…
Except now I’m starting to think I’ve been wrong. Maybe I desperately need to be wrong.
“The more time you spend fucking around, the longer we have to wait to open it.” I walk away before I do anything stupid like kiss the smug expression right off his face.
My nerves are entirely shot by the time we make it back to the quiet streets of Wells Canyon, having narrowly escaped wreckage at least five times, thanks to a brutal combination of heavy, wet snowfall and roadways coated in black ice. Pair that with a lot of drivers who weren’t prepared for the season’s first snowfall, and it’s a miracle we survived. Neither of us spoke, the music turned low so he could focus. And I picked at a pinhole in the knee of my leggings until it became big enough to fit my thumb. I haven’t been in Red’s truck often, but tonight was the first time I’ve seen him keep both hands firmly on the wheel for the entire drive, and that scared me more than anything.
Falling in a heap on the couch, I look over at Red. “I thought I was going to die without ever seeing what’s on that paper.”
“Hrm, should’ve listened to my idea.” He shrugs, pulling the slightly crinkled white envelope from his back pocket. “What do we need to do to make this fancy enough?”
“I don’t care anymore. Just glad we made it home unscathed.” I shuffle down the couch until my shoulder bumps into his, tucking my feet underneath me and discreetly enjoying his subtle soapy scent. “Open it.”
“Give me a second.” He disappears to the kitchen and returns a moment later with a barbecue lighter. Lighting the candles on my mantle and coffee table, he flicks off the overhead light. “There. Fancy.”
Settling back in next to me, he’s close enough I feel the butterflies in his stomach. With snow falling and contented stillness in the air, Red unfolds the paper. His trembling fingers smooth it out over his lap so we can read it together in the dim candlelight. And I’m immediatelycrying too hard to say anything. Too hard to express my excitement, to check in on how he’s feeling, or to tell him he should stop the tender way he’s stroking my hair.
“Holy fuck… a girl,” he whispers—to himself, I think.
I kick myself for not wearing waterproof mascara as I come away from wiping my tears with black streaks across my hands. I know my face is probably a disaster but I’m comforted by looking at the man gently crying next to me. At least we can both be weepy messes together. “Think you can handle a girl?”
“Fuck yeah, I can. We’ll paint our nails, then go work cows together.”
“You’regoing to paint your nails?” The way I’m blubbering, I feel drunk.
“Abso-fucking-lutely. Painted nails, hair bows, whatever she wants. Not ashamed at all of being wrapped around her finger.”
I laugh despite crying even harder with that statement. “My dad rocked painted toenails formanyyears when I was a kid. Poor guy was constantly undergoing makeovers. I can’t wait to see you in blue eye shadow, glitter, and red lipstick.”
“Been there, done that. Odessa got me good when I was asleep once.”
I haven’t thought much about Red’s relationship with Kate and Jackson’s kids. A few months ago, the thought of him interacting with small children would’ve been laughable. Maybe even a bit horrifying. That was before I got to see this side. The version that isn’t the teenager who rarely went to class, smoked weed and drank beer on school property, and usually had more passengers in his truck than was legal. Or the guy who’s drunk and always ready for a fight down at The Horseshoe. Neither of those are proving to be who he really is.
“Why do you never go by your actual name?” I ask, and his face crumples with confusion.
“Dunno. Got a nickname, and then that’s just what everybody called me. I didn’t bother fighting it.”
Red is the rough cowboy from high school, or the bar, or the rodeo. He’ll drink most guys under the table and kick anybody’s ass withoutquestion. Chase is the guy who makes me any food I’m craving, drives cautiously through blizzards despite being proficient at 4X4ing, and tucks warm blankets around my bare toes. The one who’s crying about having a baby girl while smoothing his work-worn hand over my hair.
“Do you have a preference?”
“Nah. Not really.”
“Well, you’re going to be a great dad, Chase.”
His hand pauses abruptly on my head before tugging me into him. My cheek collides with his firm chest, filling my ear with the thudding of his pulse. My heart’s in a flurry, safe and warm with the weight of his arms holding me close.
“I should head out before the weather gets worse.” He pulls away from the hug, clearing his face of any prior emotion.
Without a second thought, I blurt out, “Absolutely not. You aren’t driving down that shitty dirt road in a snowstorm. You can stay here.”
“I’m not sleeping on this dollhouse couch.” Technically, it’s a perfectly average-sized couch, but I can see why a guy who’s hovering somewhere just under six feet tall wouldn’t find it comfortable.
“You’d rather end up buried in a snowbank? I’ll take the couch, and you can have my bed.”
