Page 18 of The First Day of Breeding Season
My brow furrows as I can’t help but notice bolded words on the page.Single Parenthood. Family Planning Services. Donor Sperm Packages.
The room feels suddenly smaller, the air heavier. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the pamphlet like it’s a snake coiled in my hand.
Single motherhood. At Brynn’s young age?
I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the paper. It’s none of my business. Hell, I barely know her. But the thought of her making this kind of plan—going through this kind of thing alone—settles in my chest like a stone.
I think about her bright eyes and determined smile. She’s so young, so full of life, but there’s a quiet, independent strength in her that I can’t ignore. No family, no one to lean on. And now she’s planning to have a baby on her own.
My jaw clenches as I shove the envelope back into the folder. I don’t have the right to care. But a wild protectiveness is pounding inside me now.
I can’t shake the image of Brynn swelling with child. Of her holding a baby with darker hair than hers.
It shocks me how much I want that. HowclearlyI wanther, like that.
If Brynn Hughes wants a baby, I can give her a baby. She just has to say the word and I’ll breed her up good.
CHAPTER 9
BRYNN
After the world’s fastest shower, I twist my damp hair into a bun and put on my favorite sundress, and my “going to town” cowboy boots, which look cute with the dress and keep my ankle covered.
He’s going to see it at some point.
But that doesn’t need to be right now.
The house is quiet, so I think maybe Drew has headed across the driveway to the bunkhouse already, but when I step onto the front porch I find him sitting on the front porch, his hat in his hands.
“That was fast,” he says, standing quickly and jamming the hat onto his head.
“Dinner won’t wait for me.”
“Spoken like a true ranch kid.” He clears his throat. “You grow up on a place like this?”
“A bunch of them, yeah.” I gesture across the way to the lit up bunkhouse. “My parents were both ranch hands for hire. We moved every year or two, wherever they could find work. I know how to handle myself.”
He falls into step beside me. “Still wouldn’t want you to have to share a bathroom with the guys.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
When I look sideways at him, his cheeks turn ruddy, which I imagine is blushing for a rugged a cowboy.
Oh.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “That’s very sweet.”
He stops in front of the bunkhouse door and loops his fingers around the handle, but doesn’t pull it open. If anything, he’s holding it closed, and if anyone pushed against it from the inside, they’d meet a brick wall. “I’m not sweet.”
I sweep my gaze up to meet his eyes squarely. “And I’m not fragile. You don’t need to save me from rough cowboys.”
He pulls the door open, and as I brush past him, I catch the scent of clean laundry and something else beneath that, something distinctly like the roughest of cowboys.
That sharp, should-feel-dangerous-but-I-like-it energy rolls off Drew all through dinner.
He sits next to me, and his big arm keeps brushing mine, so as soon as he’s done eating, he leans back and stretches it out across the back of my chair instead.
