Page 9 of Owned By The Cowboy
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because you’ve been staring at those burgers like they cussed out your mama.”
I look down at the grill. He’s right. I’ve been flipping the same burger for the past five minutes.
“Just distracted.”
“By what?”
“Nothing important.”
Carlos gives me a look that says he doesn’t buy it, but he knows better than to push. “Alright, man. But if you need to talk…”
“I don’t.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, I’m here.”
He heads back inside, and I try to focus on the damn burgers. But my mind keeps wandering back to yesterday at the grocery store. To the way Reggie looked at me when I was talking to her daughter. To the way she watched me walk away. I could feel it all.
Years of careful distance, and it’s all going to hell because of one trip to Henderson’s Market. Fuck.
“Touchdown!” Tommy’s voice booms from inside, followed by a chorus of cheers and groans. Sounds like the game’s getting good.
I pile the burgers on a platter and head inside, where my living room looks like a hurricane hit it. Empty bottles, chip bags, pizza boxes. My coffee table’s disappeared under a mountain of food containers.
“About time,” Martinez says, grabbing a burger. “I was starting to think you forgot about us.”
“I should’ve. Look at this mess.”
“We’ll clean it up,” Jake chimes in, not taking his eyes off the TV. “Eventually.”
“Define eventually.”
“Before we leave.”
“That’s what you said last time, fucker. And I found an empty can under my couch three days later.”
“That wasn’t mine,” Jake replies.
“It was definitely yours,” Tommy adds. “Had your slobber all over it.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting.”
I grab a drink, shaking my head, laughing and settle into an armchair. But I can’t concentrate on the game. My mind keeps drifting to the cottage, to wondering what Reggie’s doing right now. If she’s settled in. If she needs anything.
If she’s thinking about me.
Fuck.
“Boss, you sure you’re okay?” Martinez asks during a commercial break. “You look like you’re about to punch something.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you haven’t touched your food and you’re gripping that cup like you’re trying to strangle it.”
I look down at my hands. He’s right. My knuckles are white.
