Page 28 of Cowboy

Bull huffs to agree.

“I’m content where I am for now,” I say, giving his arm a squeeze.

“For now.” Bull nods but remains quiet. Tipping my head to his arm, we walk the rest of the way in silence, but my thoughts are loud. I don’t know that I want to return to the entertainment industry. I feel a bit betrayed from the years of commitment, the dedication to the network, and the way I was so easily tossed aside. However, I can’t rely on my savings for everything. Eventually, I’ll need to work.

“You know, you can rely on me, Scarlett. I’m willing to pull my fair share with the baby when the time comes.” He’s talking finances, and I guess it’s a sweet enough gesture, but I don’t want Bull’s money.

Once we’re back at Bull’s home, we fall into our nightly routine of circling one another for the bathroom. I hear the door open and decide to tell Bull one more thing before I head to bed, only I’m stopped in my tracks, forgetting what I intend to say as he stands just outside the bathroom door with only a towel, wrapped around his middle. Hanging low enough to expose a trail of hair leading lower, I swallow hard knowing well what’s under that terrycloth material. My hands clutch at the door jamb, holding myself steady as my mouth dries. He has such an incredible body, lean and firm from labor on this land. A smattering of hair curls over his pecs and a tattoo circles one bicep.

“Did you need something?” Bull points over his shoulder with his thumb, suggesting the bathroom. What I need is to enter the shower with him and wash away my dirty thoughts while we clean each other’s bodies. I blink as he steps closer to my room, his presence filling up the hallway and all the oxygen I need to breathe.

“I-I just wanted to tell you I think your family is great.” As I’m an only child, my parents laid the pressure on thick when I was young and didn’t relent as I grew older. I can’t recall loud family meals or laughter around a dinner table. Even with Shelton, there were nights of only scraping forks against china and the soft swallow of wine. Perhaps that’s what happened to us. Where I thought we had quiet companionship, we only had simple silence.

“Yeah, they loved you.” I blush at the thought as they don’t really know me, and they don’t have all the information about Bull and my situation, but I want them to like me.

I’m still holding the sides of the door jamb, half my body inside my room, half of it out, but I don’t miss Bull’s eyes lowering to my breast, covered by my tight-fitting tank top. My boobs ache from both the changes in my body and the desire I see in his eyes. He wants to touch me, and I want his touch. My nails dig deeper into the wood framing the door.

“Oh, and I have another doctor’s appointment coming up soon,” I say. My voice catches on the words, raspy and rough as my own eyes focus on his chest, lowering for the dark trail leading into the towel. I’ve just made a mundane visit sound sexy in the tone of my voice, and I lick my lips before glancing back up at Bull’s face. His hand has flattened on the wall. His body stills while I worship it. “Want to come with me?”

The corner of his mouth slowly lifts, and I realize what I’ve said has two meanings.

“I mean, attend the doctor’s visit with me,” I clarify, still gripping the door.

“I know what you meant, and I’d love to come with you . . . to the doctor appointment, that is.” We stare at one another, breaths shallow. My heart races.

“Need anything else tonight?”

The list of my wants is rather short. I only want him, but I promised myself I’d roundup my libido. I don’t want to give him false hope of us, although he’s made it clear he doesn’t want us. You said Red wasn’t yours. He only wants his share in fatherhood, if he’s the father.

With the sour potential he’s not my baby’s daddy, I slap a hand lightly on the door jamb.

“We could talk to the doctor about a paternity test,” I state, nearly bursting the bubble of sexual tension between us.

“We could,” he agrees half-heartedly answering me. With nothing else said, I tap the doorframe again.

“Well, good night then.”

Bull nods, pushes off the wall, and spins to give me his retreating back. My forehead lowers for the trim, rolling back and forth against the wood. His back might be as incredible as his front with dips and cliffs of muscles. Suddenly, Bull turns on his bare feet, facing me once more and taking a few extra steps toward my door.

“Just putting it out there, that today’s a day ending in day, and if you needed me for something, I’m here for you.” His hand lightly pats his chest before coasting downward, forcing the coarse hairs to spring a little and then his abs flinch as he lowers his palm to the edge of that dangling towel.

“I’m good,” I lie, raising a hand as a little wave of good night. Stepping sideways, I knock my knee on the wood casing, bite my cheek to hold back a curse, and reach for the doorknob. Once inside the room, I collapse against the closed door, cursing from more than the ache at my knee, but the one in my heart.

Rita comes to the Busy Bean near the end of my shift the next day. Wishing I could enjoy an afternoon coffee, I sit with her instead as she sips a cold brew. The doctor has already warned me I need to cut back on caffeine products and I’ve already had my one cup this morning. Another irony of working at a coffee shop is how I must resist the temptation, just like I must resist Bull.

A full-body shiver occurs with the images in my head of Bull crowding me near the coffeepot in his kitchen or walking down the hallway in only that towel of his.

Rita and I have been discussing whether I should be looking for a new job or not.

“I’d just like to do something with more purpose.” My reference did not imply working at the coffee café was less than admirable. I simply meant any employment in general, I wanted to have purpose behind it in the future.

“It’s okay not to know what you want,” Rita tells me as we slouch on the comfy couch Rita claims as hers.

“I’m forty-two. Shouldn’t I have life all pulled together by now?”

“Your life was pulled together. It was wound tighter than a knitter’s knot. It’s okay to loosen the loops a little. You’re never too old, or too young, to start over,” Rita encourages.

“But I don’t want to start over.” I sound like a petulant child, but the truth is, I actually do want a fresh start. My hand coasts over the tiny bulge of nine weeks, or is it only eight, of pregnancy. I have an appointment this week to listen to Sprout’s heartbeat. It’s still a bit surreal that some tiny creature is growing inside me, let alone unbelievable at my advanced age, as the doctor lovingly called it during my first visit. When the doctor also told me this pregnancy was considered a geriatric pregnancy, I almost fell off the table. I wasn’t that old. It’s not improbable or even uncommon for a woman over forty to be pregnant, but it also comes with loads of potential risks. My own research on the topic taught me that while the average age of a pregnant woman is twenty-six, there is an increasing proportion of women who are in their thirties. And while that number has actually dipped in the last decade, pregnancies among women over forty is actually on the rise. It’s up only a few percentage points, but it’s still noteworthy.