Page 8 of The Cowboy's Christmas Baby
Chapter Three
Tate
“Iheard MilesDecker is looking for a babysitter,” Maybe said.
Tate choked on a mouthful of coffee.
The two women occupied a small table for two near a glass door overlooking the waterfront at the Wayside Café. Inside, wall-to-wall strands of Christmas lights sparkled. Thick fronds of pine garland draped along the tops of the pastry display cases. Cheery candle centerpieces brightened every flat surface. Hints of ginger, cinnamon, and apple flavored the air. Early morning frost, not yet killed off by the sun, slicked the twinkling wooden boards of the patio outside.
Still no snow, however. Not that Tate cared. Nothing good had come out of Christmas in over two thousand years and definitely not in the past two.
Her friend Maybe—AKA Mabel, although very few people dared call her that to her face—was the youngest of three sets of identical twins. Maybe was distinguishable from her counterpart Meredith—known in the family as Mayhem for reasons that became more apparent as one got to know her—primarily through personality, rather than appearance. They were tall, curvy, chestnut-haired beauties with striking, golden-brown eyes. Even Tate, who’d known the twins since they were five years old, sometimes confused them. To further complicate things, all six sisters looked alike. Tate’s brothers used to tease Maybe that her parents had to be first cousins for their gene pool to replicate with such precision.
“Why on earth would Miles Decker need someone to babysit him?” Tate managed to croak once her fit of coughing subsided.
“Miles doesn’t need babysitting, idiot. His little girl does.”
Miles Decker had a daughter? How was it possible for her to not know this?
Tate had followed his career with the rabid fervor of a tween Shawn Mendes fan. She’d kept a poster of him on her bedroom wall until she left home at eighteen. She’d known all his stats. She’d dreamed of becoming a bull rider on the off chance she might meet him someday. And when she’d finally met Miles in person?
She’d made a complete fool of herself—but not for any reason her tween self would understand. She’d taken one close-up look at the damage done to his face and the dangers of the sport came crashing back on her, along with the memory of her twin brother’s poor, broken body, lying unmoving in the arena. A cold fist had grabbed onto her lungs and twisted until she couldn’t breathe—not a full-blown panic attack, but close to it.
She’d had two major attacks since Tanner’s death—both of them when she’d tried to approach an arena. They made her so angry… She was stronger than that.
“You should apply for the job,” Maybe added.
And Tate was in need of a new one. While Vanessa hadn’t been brave enough to fire her, it turned out the store manager wasn’t at all worried about silly little things like the law.
“We’ve had eleven complaints about you so far,” he’d said when she showed up for her shift, because apparently the whole town was less interested in Santa’s behavior than hers. “Plus, your supervisor claims you’ve been difficult to work with from the day you started here.”
Thank you, Vanessa.
Which was why Tate was sipping a spiced pumpkin latte with Maybe and listening to Taylor Swift Christmas songs at the Wayside rather than ringing in sale items on cash.
“I can’t babysit for Miles Decker. I already told you. I embarrassed myself in front of him at the taproom.”
Maybe rolled her eyes. “So you broke a few glasses. He’s likely used to women getting all clumsy around him.”
Undoubtedly true. What woman wouldn’t go nuts? Miles Decker was one of those men who owned any room he walked into. Attention automatically defaulted to him. Women loved him. Men admired him. The scar on his left cheek merely added to the mystique. It certainly wasn’t the first thing people noticed about him.
Plus, he’d insisted on helping her clean up the mess she’d made, proving that not only was he beautiful, but he was also a gentleman. Despite his reputation. Which raised even more questions.
Who was the kid’s mother?Wherewas the mother?
Maybe provided the answer without Tate having to ask. “Rumor has it a woman showed up out of nowhere and dropped the kid on his doorstep. Ten-to-one says she’s some buckle bunny who gambled and lost. Miles would have lawyered-up. Hard.”
Those odds sounded about right. Lots of women hung around rodeos, hoping to rope the next rising star. Even Tate, while never a true buckle bunny—not with Tanner around to make sure that didn’t happen—had been a big bull rider groupie, herself.
Now her hands got all sweaty and she dropped trays of glasses simply because Miles Decker happened to look her way. It made her angry. And scared. And even more angry. None of which she’d admit. Not even to her best friend.
“I don’t know anything about kids.” Other than they didn’t like it when Santa Claus cried. “Besides, dozens of women have probably already applied.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Maybe snatched up Tate’s phone. She punched in a number while slapping Tate’s hands away.
Tate heard the phone ringing, then a smooth, familiar, male voice.
Oh, my God.
