Page 20 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
“Find ways to point out the age difference between us. For the record, I’m twenty-five—so unless your publicist lied, that makes it nine years. And I might have been a big fan of yours when you were competing, but I was never a groupie, if that’s something you’re worried about. I am curious, though—what’s the magic number for you? Two years? Five? Because the only number that mattered to most of the bull riders I ever met was the age of consent.”
Miles winced. The age of consent was sixteen in most states. In his early days on the circuit, he’d drawn the line at eighteen to be safe, because some girls developed faster than others and it wasn’t always easy to tell. Looking back, he was embarrassed by what had been his biggest concern. He could well imagine what a pretty girl like Tate would have endured.
For the life of him, he could not figure her out. She’d followed his career, and he could tell she was a big fan, but she didn’t act like any of the female fans he’d ever met. She could be flirty, but in a harmless, not to be taken too seriously, way. She said what she thought—which he liked—but not what shefelt, which disturbed him, because while all hell had not yet broken loose, he suspected it would. Emotionally, she was a landmine.
And she didn’t hold him in awe. Why the hell not?
Maybe his shine had worn off for her once he’d retired. Or maybe after his famous face had been damaged. Or maybe since Iris had now entered the picture. At least she hadn’t brought up Iris’s mother, who was too close to Tate’s age for his personal comfort—although age and blond hair were about all the likenesses the two women shared.
“You knew the wrong men,” he said lightly, because why not be a hypocrite. He found Tate attractive, but he was at a far different point in his life, and he didn’t need her brand of trouble in it. Bringing up her age was a way of reminding himself to keep his hands off. “My limit has more to do with maturity than some random number. And for the record, I have zero interest in teenaged girls,” he added, in case it really had to be said.
Tate’s frown bent a faint scar that cut through her right eyebrow. “Did you just call me immature?”
“Of course not.” Except that was exactly what he’d just done. “I’m reminding myself that I have a lot more life experience under my belt than you do.” Which made it sound as if he was attracted to her even though he should know better. Which was true. Which made him feel about as creepy as Santa.
Iris squirmed and stiffened her legs, wanting down. He was fast learning to recognize the signs of an impending temper tantrum. She’d only thrown two so far, but they’d been doozies, and both had involved hunger, so chances were good that she wanted her supper.
A change in subject right now would be more than welcome, as well, because he was putting entirely too much thought into something that shouldn’t matter, since he had no intentions of getting involved with Tate. He doubted if she had any intentions of getting involved with him either.
But he couldn’t help wondering why not—had he really become so unappealing to women?Still ninety-five percent pretty. Right?
He thrust Iris at her. “Here. You can feed her while I heat up the lasagna.”
Tate cuddled his fretful daughter, who must have recognized who her real meal ticket was, because she stopped squirming. He got quite a rush from the sight of the two of them together—blond, pretty Tate and the sweet little girl who looked like her proud daddy.
HelikedTate. He really did. But the mental bandwidth she consumed wore him out.
They had to pass through the living room on the way to the kitchen. He’d already set the tree up and it was ready for lights. An enormous box of shiny ornaments spilled its insides nearby. Elizabeth O’Connell had insisted he take them because Dallas and Hannah—okay, Dallas—had gone overboard and bought far more than the ranch could possibly use.
Tate stopped and ogled the fat Douglas fir, a purchase inspired by his recent waterfront shopping excursion and the impressive Christmas display. “What is it with Texans? Bigger is not always better.”
He slapped a hand to his chest, not about to admit that he’d had to lop two feet off the top to fit it into the room, but happy to roll with her mood swings. “Nobody needs that kind of negativity, ma’am. When it comes to Christmas, bigger is always better.”
He got a different kind of rush just thinking about it. Sure, this year would be quieter than he was used to. And homesickness was a real thing. But Iris made it worthwhile. And it would be fun to include Tate, even if she was quirky, combative, and emotionally repressed. Figuring her out was a challenge, and he’d always liked those.
They squeezed past the tree and entered the kitchen, his favorite room in the house, the one he’d renovated first and where he’d spent the most money.
“Wow.” She blinked as she surveyed the changes he’d made. “This doesn’t look at all the way I remember.”
“Glad to hear it. Because it looked pretty dismal.”
It had taken him weeks to get rid of the smell of funky old dog. He’d ripped up the floor, then torn out the wall between the kitchen and dining room, and turned it into one enormous, shared space. He’d installed stainless steel, industrial appliances. The island was industrial-grade stainless steel, too, with a giant butcher block on one end and a bowl of fresh fruit in the middle. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, within easy reach. He’d added a table for six in front of the window that overlooked the frozen back yard. Right now, because it was night outside, the thick glass reflected the kitchen. He’d positioned Iris’s new high chair between the sink and the island so he could keep her entertained while he cooked.
And Miles liked to cook. He liked the preciseness of peeling and cutting and dicing. He liked experimenting with spices and different ingredients. He especially liked presentation, something he’d learned from his mother.
No one needed to know how many hours he’d invested in picking out place mats, utensils, and dishes. Or, for that matter, how much he liked to shop.
He repositioned Iris’s chair to the opposite side of the island so that she and Tate wouldn’t be in his way, then he got down to business. He grabbed a few jars of baby food from one of the cupboards. He planned to start making her meals fresh once they got past the rodeo, but until then, she was stuck with this slop. To be fair to the manufacturers, she appeared to enjoy it.
Tate knew the feeding drill even better than he did, so he left her to it and opened the fridge. The home-cooked lasagna he pulled out had crumbled Corizon sausage mixed in with the ground meat and smoked Gouda layered on top. He’d used gluten-free pasta—not to avoid wheat, but because he preferred the firm texture.
He eased the half-empty pan into the oven and adjusted the heat. No warming up leftovers in the microwave for him, not unless he was in a serious hurry, and tonight, that wasn’t the case. Tonight was about starting a Christmas tradition with Iris, and hopefully, giving Tate’s holiday spirit a boost. What had happened to her twin was tragic, no doubt about it. But, as his pragmatic mom always said, life was for the living.
His mom would never, not in a million years, abandon the remainder of her family if he’d been killed in the arena. She’d be sad, sure. But she didn’t play favorites.
Tate accepted a glass of red wine and commented when he didn’t pour one for himself.
“If you’re worried about driving me home, there’s no need for you to take Iris out again when I can catch a ride with Ford,” she said, nudging the bottle toward him.
