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Rowan: You’re bad, but in a way I love, Cowboy.
Diesel: Did you just say you love me?
I smirk, knowing it’s way too early to exchange those words, but there’s no other way to describe the way I’ve always felt about Rowan Bishop. Now that I have the chance of a lifetime with the woman my fifteen-year-old self jerked off to nearly every night in the shower, there’s no way in hell I’m fucking it up.
Hurrying, I send another text, not wanting to put her on the spot.
Diesel: I’m just kidding.
Rowan: Shut the hell up.
Diesel: Why don’t you make me? I can think of a few ways.
Riley returns, and I tuck my phone in my pocket and stuff my mouth with food so I don’t have to talk. The smirk isn’t lost on him, though.
“You’re a dickhead,” he murmurs, keeping his head low.
“Surprised John didn’t murder you back there,” I tell him.
Riley glares at me. “If I wasn’t family, he probably would’ve. Just picked up extra chores for hitting a woman with a biscuit because you don’t know how to shut the fuck up.”
I shrug. “And you don’t know how to control your temper.”
A few seconds later, Riley takes his attention from his plate and glances behind me. I turn around and see a blonde walking toward us, but I don’t recognize her, so I go back to my breakfast.
“Diesel?” she asks when she gets closer, looking directly at me.
“Howdy,” I greet. “Can I help you?”
I wonder if I’ve met her before, but she doesn’t look too familiar, so I’m fairly certain I haven’t.
She looks at me, then at Riley. “Is there any way we can chat in private?”
Riley shoos me away.
“Sure, no problem.” Though I’m curious as to what she has to say.
Looking around, I lead her out onto the back porch because it’s fairly empty. Once we’re outside, she turns to me.
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced.” She hesitates as if she’s waiting for a reaction.
I give her a grin and shrug. “It’s no problem, ma’am. What can I help you with?”
She sucks in a deep breath, and I can tell she’s nervous. I wish she’d just spit it out, though. “I wrote you a letter a couple of months back…”
It takes me a minute to comprehend what she’s talking about. “Letter?”
…but I know exactly what she’s referring to.
“Yeah, my name is Laurel. You didn’t call me even though I left my number so you left me no choice but to come here. My sister, Chelsea, needs your help, even if she’s too proud to ask for it.”
I blink hard. “Chelsea?”
She nods. “Chelsea’s my sister. You two hooked up in Vegas three years ago. She gave birth to your son nine months after.” Laurel grabs her cell phone and swipes through her photos, then turns it around and shows me the screen.
“There he is. Just look at him. There’s no doubt he’s your son. I knew the moment I saw your Facebook photos that you were his daddy.”
I look down at the picture of the beautiful boy who’s a spitting image of me when I was that age. He has my mouth, nose, and even my green eyes. Learning I have a son that Chelsea never told me about makes me sick to my goddamn stomach.
“Why would she keep this from me?” I search Laurel’s face. Her cheeks flush, and her pink lips tuck inside her mouth.
“I have no idea. Anytime I brought it up, she’d tell me to mind my own business. But now—”
“But now you’re not?” I stare at her.
She shrugs, unapologetically. “Not when it comes to my nephew. I love him more than anything.”
My heart races, and I don’t know how to feel or what to think. I take one last look at the boy’s photo, a toddler at this point, and allow the image of him to burn into my memory. Then I walk off the back of the porch.
“Where are you going?” she asks, trailing me.
“I got some thinkin’ to do,” I tell her without turning around. Right now, I need to be alone, but she doesn’t take the hint. The only thing that stops me is her grabbing my hand and spinning me around.
“Can you at least give me your number? I want to stay in contact with you.”
I study her, then swallow hard. “Tell me what you hoped to accomplish by coming here, Laurel. Chelsea obviously doesn’t want me involved so what can I really do?”
She tilts her head and looks at me. “You can be a father to your son. It’s your right.” She digs in her purse and hands me a business card. “My cell is on there. If you change your mind about wanting more information, call or text me. I did my part. I can’t make either of you do the right thing for Dawson, but I can sleep better at night knowing I told you. The ball’s in your court now.”
