Page 12 of Rough Cowboy
I don’t like it.
I don’t like it one bit.
I beeline to the mama-to-be. My long strides interchange to a quick run.
She hunches over the ground. Her bare knees dig into the slate patio stones. She presses one hand on the ground as if steadying herself and the other against her forehead.
I kneel beside her. “Elsie, what’s wrong?”
My hands are all over her.
Her arms.
Her shoulders.
Her face.
I’m acting like all my fool-ass brothers doting over the supposed loves of their life. Only, I don’t love Elsie. Besides the many romps we’ve had, I can barely stand her. I appreciate her snide sense of humor and snarky personality. And the way she doesn’t take offense to a damn thing and can turn a bad situation into a phenomenal experience.
Those are why I don’t feel rushed to get rid of her after we fuck. I enjoy her. I can’t stand her, but I fucking enjoy her. And realizing she doesn’t fit in the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em category pushes me to go faster after every single time we bang.
I don’t know why she’s different.
I don’t care why she’s different.
All I know is that she’s carrying my brother’s baby, which makes her family. I can’t just ignore her and leave her struggling on the ground. I must treat her like a sister–even if I can’t get her naked body out of my head.
My big hands cup her small face and force her to look at me. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
Her blue eyes sparkle like ocean water with speckles of gold from the sandy bottom.
Fuck.
Shit.
What the hell is my mind clambering on about?
“I’m a little light-headed, that’s all. I don’t know if it’s the sun or—” When her fingers tighten around my T-shirt, and her head dips down, I’m lost in her.
Nothing else matters.
Only her.
“I’ll take you inside.”
My arms slide under her legs and behind her back. I lift her before she can argue and carry her into the cool house.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she says, but her arms coil around my neck, and her head rests on my shoulder. “I’m probably just thirsty or nervous about this stupid baby-daddy reveal. You know, it’s your fault we’re having this party. Showing up all cockeyed at your nephew’s birthday like you didn’t realize I was knocked up. Or you didn’t care, and dammit, I think you should care. Asshole. And aren’t you drunk? Your brother claims you’re as liquored as Rita. You better not drop me.”
I’ve never met someone who loves her own damn voice as much as Elsie.
“Let’s get some water into you.” I chuckle and head toward the kitchen.
Damn, she smells good.
Spicy and sexy.
The hint of sweet floral springtime is new. I’m not sure how I feel about the change. Elsie has had so many changes since moving to Whiskey Ridge Creek. Besides today’s outfit—a non-stop cock tease—she’s been hiding in oversized flannel. The little buckle bunny used to flaunt her curves in flannel, not conceal them. I’ve also noticed she watches more than gets involved, like she’s afraid to break the baby. But the most significant change is how she does her damn best to steer clear of me—and I don’t like it.
