Page 4 of Curvy Girl and the Bad Boy Cowboy

"How long have you known?" he asks Jackson.

"Just tonight," his brother answers. "And now we need to talk about what you're going to do."

"Do?" Ethan repeats, like the word is foreign.

"Yes, do," Jackson's voice is firm but not unkind. "This isn't going away, little brother."

I feel a rush of gratitude toward Jackson. When I showed up at the Covington ranch tonight, I'd been a mess of nerves and morning sickness that persisted well into the evening.

Jackson had opened the door, taken one look at me, and ushered me inside without question. There was no judgment in his eyes when I finally explained why I was there—just a quiet determination that made me believe, for the first time, that this might somehow be okay.

"I didn't come here to trap you," I say, meeting Ethan's stunned gaze. "Or to force you into something you don't want. I just... you deserved to know."

Ethan sinks into the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His whole body radiates disbelief.

"A baby?" he whispers, more to himself than to us. "I can't be a father. I'm not—I don't know how to—"

"Nobody does at first," Jackson says quietly.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling like an intruder in this moment between brothers. The reality of my situation crashes over me again: single, pregnant, and in love with a man who runs from commitment like it's on fire.

"Look," I say, my voice shaking slightly. "It's late. You're processing. I get it. I should go."

"Go?" Ethan's head snaps up. "You drop this bomb and then just leave?"

"We can talk tomorrow when you're sober. I'll be at the bakery until three."

"And then what?" he asks, a note of panic in his voice. "What happens after we talk?"

I meet his eyes, seeing the fear there, the same fear I've been carrying.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "That's what we need to figure out."

Ethan scrunches his hair between his fingers, and his face contorts through several emotions—fear, confusion, and finally, something that looks surprisingly like resolve.

"I know what to do," he says suddenly. "I just don't know how."

Jackson's eyebrows lift. "What do you mean by that?"

Ethan straightens in his chair, squaring his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight.

"I mean, we're obviously having this kid, and I'm going to be a good father to it."

Of all the scenarios I'd imagined—his denial, his anger, his suggestion that I "take care of it"—this wasn't one of them. Ethan Covington, Cedar Falls' most notorious commitment-phobe, volunteering for fatherhood?

"Are you serious?" I finally manage to ask.

"Dead serious." His eyes lock with mine, clearer now despite the alcohol. "This is my responsibility."

A complicated wave of emotion washes over me—relief that he's not running away, but also skepticism that feels almost cruel to acknowledge.

"Ethan," I begin carefully, "being a father isn't just something you decide to be in a moment. It's every day for the rest of your life."

"You think I don't know that?" There's a flash of hurt in his eyes.

"I think you might not realize what you're signing up for," I say gently. "Your whole life would have to change."

Jackson watches our exchange with an unreadable expression, his arms crossed over his chest.

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