Page 65 of Trying Not to Need You

“All. The. Time,” Brad adds, smirking.

“She already knows,” Macklin tells them. “If you think you’re spilling my secrets, you’re going to have to dig deeper.”

“Right.” Hank laughs. “Like you have secrets. This one”—he points to Macklin, but he’s looking at me—“he’d turn every woman away that tried to get close to him. He wouldn’t even let them buy him a drink.”

“And eventually, they weren’t even allowed to touch him when he was posing for pictures or autographs,” Brad chimes in.

“What? Why?” I glance up at Macklin.

“They weren’t you.” He says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that I’m tempted to drag him across the street to our hotel room to show him what his nonchalant replies and that simple shrug mean to me.

I’ve never been loved like this. I want to pull out my cell phone, text Ellison, and ask her if this is how she feels every single day. This deep, all-consuming love. The confidence that he’s in this with me, every step of the way, no matter what happens, he’s got me. I’ve got him.

However, I don’t reach for my phone because I don’t need to call my sister to know the answer is a resounding yes. Macklin looks at me the way Copeland looks at Ellison, the way our dad used to look at our mom.

This man loves me.

Unconditionally.

I love him irrevocably.

“No way! You’re Macklin McBride. Can we have your autograph?” A group of young women, probably in their early twenties, stops before us. “You’re Hank Anderson! Can we get a picture?” The girl who seems to be speaking for all of them moves to Macklin’s side and tries to slide her arm into his.

“Whoa, no touching,” he says, pulling away. “My wife is standing right here.”

The girl rolls her eyes. “It’s just a picture.”

“To you. To me, it’s disrespecting the woman I love. You can have a picture and an autograph, but there will be no contact.” His voice is stern.

“It’s okay, Mac,” I whisper. “They’re your fans.” I truly don’t mind, but my heart is melting for this man and the way he loves me. And don’t get me started on how he called me his wife.

He turns his back on them. His eyes locked on mine. “It’s not okay, Baylor.” He’s pissed, and I can’t help it. I smile, which eases some of the tension in his jaw. Rising on my toes, I kiss just under his jaw.

“I know you love me, Mac. Those women won’t change that. You can take a picture with your fans. Just remember, I’m your number one fan. Always.”

“I don’t ride anymore, baby. I don’t need to play nice for sponsorships. Not that I did the last several years anyway.”

“You’re one of a kind, cowboy.”

“Nah, I’m just yours,” he says, pressing his lips to mine.

By the time he pulls away, the women are gone, Brad is, too, but Hank is still there, smirking at us.

“I need to get moving. Want to meet for a drink after the show?”

“Maybe next time,” Macklin tells them. “Good luck to your riders tonight.”

“Thanks, brother. It was good to see you. Baylor, a pleasure,” he says, tipping his cowboy hat, before turning and walking away.

“We could have had drinks, or you could have, and I could have chilled in the room.”

“First of all, I’ll never leave you behind in the room. If I’m going out, you’re by my side. Second, no drinks,” he says, his hand resting on my belly. “Did you forget that I’m trying to knock you up?”

I don’t hide my grin. “So, you plan on working on that later, do you?”

“Damn right, I do. Now, let’s grab something to drink without alcohol, and go watch some crazy motherfuckers climb onto the backs of some angry bulls.”

“That used to be you.”