Page 10 of A Baby for the Texas Cowboy
“Not every woman knows right away,” Kane said looking rather evasive.
“Seems like it would be pretty damn obvious to me.” Anders stalked back into the arena and ran his hand through his wet, sticky hair. He swore. He needed to talk to Whiskey, and he needed a shower. He couldn’t drive home tonight now. He’d be arrested and tossed in jail.
“Text her,” Kane said probably for the fourth time.
“This needs to be an in-person thing.” Anders was so aggravated he really wanted to smash his fist through a wall. He was barely hanging on. Pregnant. A baby. He kept repeating the words, but they still sounded impossible. Something that happened to some careless idiot. They’d used a condom every single time. He was always careful. He had a plan, and it didn’t include being a daddy until he’d retired from the tour and moved home to Last Stand.
“Anders, you’re going to see her next weekend.”
“No. I’m not. She quit.”
He’d heard that stunner from the truck driver who’d been loading the last of the booth Whiskey and her crew put together and took apart at every sponsor event.
“This was her last weekend. Another fact she didn’t tell me.”
Not that he’d been encouraging any heart-to-hearts. He’d been too focused on avoiding her so he could stop obsessing.
“You could go visit her wherever she works or lives when she’s not pouring at the sponsor events,” Kane said reasonably.
“I don’t know where she lives. I need to—”
Kane grabbed his shoulders. “Settle down. This wasn’t the end. This was her opening.”
“Pouring whiskey on my head and essentially telling me to fuck off sounded pretty damn final to me.”
But he’d check the parking lot. She hadn’t been riding with the driver of the truck. She hadn’t flown here on a broom, although it felt that way.
Okay. Okay. He did have to pull himself together. Kane was right about that.
He switched directions and went out the back just in time to see Whiskey hand something to his brother, shake his hand, and then slide one of her long legs in painted-on black denim and leathers over her Ducati.
“Whiskey, hold up.”
She straddled the bike and kicked on the engine.
He lunged forward and grabbed the handlebars.
“Just stop a minute.” He had to shout over the roar of the engine.
She smoothly put on her helmet, tucking the length of that copper ponytail that bounced with such attitude into her jacket. She lowered the visor so all he saw was black and his pinched and pale reflection. He imagined her eyes were narrowed and shooting fire.
“I said, hold up.”
She pulled on her gloves, the movements smooth and practiced and somehow sexy as hell.
“Just stop.” He set his body like a linebacker and she the quarterback looking for an opening he wasn’t going to give her.
She gunned the engine again.
“Are you insane?” August demanded, pulling him away.
Whiskey didn’t wait. She sped out of the parking lot and into the night.
“Why the hell did you let her go?” Anders rounded on his brother.
“What are you trying to do, get slapped with an assault charge?”
“I just needed to talk to her. Now I don’t even know where the hell she’s going.”
