Page 7 of Curvy Girl and the Bad Boy Cowboy

"And now?" Jackson's voice is gentle but insistent.

"Now I don't have a choice, do I?"

Vincent shakes his head.

"You always have a choice, Ethan. Being there for your child doesn't mean you have to force a relationship with Naomi. Sometimes trying to make something work for the wrong reasons just makes things worse."

I find myself thinking about Naomi in a way I've been avoiding for months. Her laugh, the way she always smells like cinnamon, how she knows exactly how I take my coffee. The way she used to look at me—like she saw someone worth believing in.

"Get some sleep," Jackson finally says, standing up. "Nothing's going to get figured out tonight anyway."

"Your brain's probably halfway to fried between the beer and the news," Vincent adds, rising as well. "Just know we're here, whatever you need."

"Thanks," I mumble, still lost in thought.

They head upstairs, leaving me alone in the dimly lit living room. Eventually, I drag myself up to my bedroom, kicking off my boots and collapsing onto my bed without bothering to change.

The ceiling fan spins lazily above me as my mind races. Will I be a good father? The question loops endlessly, without a clear answer.

My own father was present but distant—all work and discipline, little affection. I don't want to be that kind of dad, but I'm not sure I know how to be any other kind.

And then there's Naomi—beautiful, steady Naomi with her bakery, plans, and unwavering certainty about what she wants. Could I be what she needs? Could we be more than just co-parents?

I never seriously considered it before—or rather, I refused to consider it. There was one night, about six months ago, when we were lying in her bed watching some terrible movie. She'd fallen asleep against my chest, her breathing soft and even, and I remember looking down at her and feeling something shift inside me. For just a moment, I could see a future there—waking up to her every morning, building something real.

I pushed the thought away immediately. Commitment wasn't in my plans. Freedom was my only plan.

Now, staring at my ceiling at three in the morning, I wonder if freedom is just another word for being alone. If maybe what I've been running from isn't commitment but the fear of failing at it.

Tomorrow, I'll go to the bakery. I'll talk to Naomi—really talk to her, beyond just discussing diapers and visitation schedules. If she's willing to give me another chance, maybe we could try being something more.

It's a terrifying thought.

Almost as terrifying as becoming a father in five months.

Next Morning

I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I know, Jackson is indeed pounding on my door at 7:30. Not quite 7, not quite 8—I guess that's his version of mercy.

"Up and at 'em," he calls through the door. "The fence on the north pasture needs fixing."

I groan, my head pounding with the reminder of last night's beers and life-altering news. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if the whole thing with Naomi was just a bizarre dream. But the knot in my stomach tells me otherwise.

"Taking a personal day," I call back, my voice rough with sleep.

There's a pause, then the sound of the doorknob turning. Jackson pokes his head in, surprise evident on his face.

"You're taking a what now?"

"A day," I say, sitting up and wincing at the sunlight streaming through my window. "I'm meeting Naomi at two."

Understanding dawns on his face.

"Right. Good. That's... responsible of you."

The word 'responsible' coming from Jackson's mouth in reference to me sounds so foreign that we both almost laugh.

"Don't get used to it," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it.

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