Page 39 of Claimed By the Cowboys

I throw my head back and let the laughter pour from me as Jensen nips my thigh and smacks my ass.

I should leave.

This should be the last time.

But God help me, I want to stay and do it all over again, and again, and again.

I want to be this Brandy.

Chapter 20

Brandy

Mama is waiting for me when I get home from work the next day, perched on the edge of the sofa like she’s been rehearsing a conversation for hours.

“Brandy, baby, I have wonderful news,” she says. My heart clenches at the brightness of her eyes, filled with that particular mix of hope and determination I’ve come to dread. “Pastor Ellis introduced me to a lovely young man at church. His name is James. New to the congregation. Six feet tall with the dreamiest brown eyes you ever saw. He’s a teacher, stable, God-fearing, and he asked about you specifically.”

I freeze in the doorway, keys still in my hand. My body is still tender from last night, the faint marks Bo and Jensen left on my skin hidden under my scrubs, and the ghost of two sets of hands and two mouths still lingering with heat and awareness. My mind is even worse. During every quiet moment today, I kept drifting back to their ranch, as my body heated and my mind spun with memories. They made me feel like the center of the universe. They made me feel free and perfect despite the reality of my life outside their rustic walls. They showed me the kind of men they are and the kind of life I could have with them, and instead of it being easier to let them go, it’s only gotten harder.

I don’t want to go on a date with James.

I can’t think of anything I want less than to meet a man while two other men still linger in my body and mind.

I want to drive straight back to that ranch house, walk through the door, and let Bo and Jensen break me apart and put me back together again until I can’t think at all. I want them to make me believe that a life with them could be real, and I wouldn’t have to risk everything to live it.

But how do I admit that to Mama? In a million years, I couldn’t come up with the words.

“I… I don’t know, Mama,” I say carefully, hanging up my bag. “I’ve got a double shift tomorrow, and the kids have that school thing on Friday. I’m really tired.”

She waves a hand like my excuses are smoke. “You had enough energy to stay out late last night.” Her eyes narrow and she pauses as though she’s waiting for an explanation she doesn’t really want to hear. “It’s just dinner. One evening. He seems like such a nice young man. The kind who would understand your responsibilities. You can’t keep putting your life on hold forever.”

I rub the center of my chest, pressing against the tension. She’s not wrong —before Jasmine died, I was hopeful about the kind of relationship mama envisions for me. I had the dream of children of my own in a secure family unit. I wanted to please my parents and live up to their expectations because I believed it was for the best. But every time I try to picture sitting across from this James, or any other man, all I can see is stormy blue-gray eyes and easy smiles belonging to two cowboys who don’t fit the mold.

I should say no. I should tell her I’m not interested or that I’m not ready. But I know what will happen. She’ll be mad and disappointed. It’s a deadly combination that I don’t have the energy to deal with. I need to eat. I could be out and back in a couple of hours.

I hear myself say, “Okay. Just dinner.”

Mama beams like I’ve handed her the moon. “That’s my girl. I’ll let him know. He’ll pick you up Friday at six.”

“Okay.”

“Will you let me do your hair?”

“You don’t like it how it is?”

“Of course I do. You look beautiful with your hair natural. But maybe some box braids?”

“It’s too short.”

“I’ve been learning how to add hair. I practiced on myself.”

I blink, surprised. “You did?”

“I could try one, and you can see what you think?” She reaches out to touch a curl that’s escaped my bun, and I soften. It’s been years since she did my hair, and it’s sweet that she’s been trying to learn a style that I might like. The time it used to take her to braid my hair was always special to me. We’d talk and laugh, and she’d share stories from her childhood. We need some of that in our lives now. Something that isn’t working out who’s doing what chore on what day.

“Okay.”

She heads to her room and returns with a packet of loose, long, dark hair, a comb, and hair products to smooth and control the hair. I washed my hair freshly this morning, but she’ll need to straighten it before braiding the whole thing. I sit on a low stool by the kitchen table as mama assembles what she needs for this first attempt. While I close my tired eyes, she takes the band from my hair and uses a rat-tail comb to divide my hair into a clean, square section. She removes a section of long hair from the pack and attaches the extension, folding it over my natural hair root to create a firm base knot. She begins braiding my natural hair into the three legs of the braid, continuing to the end of the extension. She holds it at the end and passes it to me to keep secure.