“Where is she?” I demand.
Win shuts his mouth and points at a closed door.
“Thebathroom?” I ask, incredulous.
Did she confuse it with the front door or what?
“She had her hand over her mouth,” Win explains as I hear the sound of vomiting coming from behind the door. Win glances at the little boy and mouths, “She’s pregnant.”
My eyes widen. “And the boy?”
“Her son, Ben.”
I look from the boy to the closed bathroom door where my pregnant scent match is throwing up, then I lean against the nearest wall, rubbing a hand over my gritty eyes. “This is too much information to process on two hours' sleep.”
“Are you a cowboy?” Ben asks, pointing at my brown cowboy boots.
“Rancher,” I say distractedly. “My family are cattle ranchers in Wyoming.”
His face scrunches in confusion.
He’s a little kid, so the word “rancher” probably doesn’t exist in his limited vocabulary. “It’s kind of like a cowboy. Still involves horses.”
His green eyes brighten like it’s Christmas morning.
From within the bathroom, Rose moans. “Cowboy? Oh god.” Her vomiting resumes, and I wince in sympathy.
Iwantto help my scent match, but given I’m the reason she’s in there heaving up her breakfast, I figure the best thing I can do is keep my mouth shut and get her a glass of water.
Rose Hayes sits on the other side of the kitchen dining table, arms folded across her chest. An untouched glass of water is in front of her. Her eyes are wary.
Her son, Ben, is out in the backyard with Win, shrieking with laughter. Win volunteered to keep him occupied after calling his boss to let him know he’d be late to work, so Rose and I could have the most surreal conversation of our lives.
You only get one scent match, and not everyone finds theirs. At thirty-five, I was losing hope it would ever happen for me. But while it’s the happiest day of my life, I’m getting the sense it’s one of the worst for her.
I have a scent match, and my life just changed in ways I never believed it ever would.
To stop myself from flinging that dining table aside, hauling my scent match into my arms and claiming her mouth, I’m standing with my back against the kitchen counter, arms also folded, though not because I’m wary around her.
I keep wanting to touch her. To kiss her. To fuck her.
All of the above for hours, if not days.
“I don’t want a scent match,” she announces in a soft Southern accent, making it clear she wants no part of me.
Telepathy isn’t a thing with scent matches, but either she’s damn good at reading me, or I’m doing a shit as hell job of hiding my intentions around her.
Probably it’s a little of both.
“Is that right?” I murmur while scratching the itchy stubble on my jaw.
I didn’t shave before driving down to Wyoming, and I was too busy to pick up a razor while I was there. Typical that I run into my mate looking like a fucking hobo.
She lifts her chin, revealing the faint bite on the right side of her neck. “I just want you to know that before we get to talking about what comes next.”
I nod calmly. “That’s fair.”
She smiles. “Then we understand each other.”
