The Texan's Surprise Baby (Bell Family 2)

“It’s more than a vacation.” His voice was flat. “We’re not going back. Period.”

Michael frowned, but he was obviously just as confused by the pronouncement as he was annoyed at the change of plans. His cousin didn’t like being left out of the loop, but Wyatt didn’t feel like explaining the reasons behind their decision. Not here at Emily’s wedding reception, anyway, where the loud music was making any kind of conversation more public than he liked.

“What’d you all decide to do? Hang around Red Rock and find yourselves wives?” Michael’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “That’s what everyone else in this family who sticks around in Red Rock for more than a few days seems to do. Puts their heads right into a marital noose.”

“Hell no!” Sawyer visibly shuddered. He was twenty-seven—two years younger than Wyatt—and the idea of marriage was clearly as far from his mind as it was Wyatt’s. Shane was nodding, too. And Asher...well, Asher had already gone through one divorce. He just stared into his drink and said nothing.

“Then what the hell’s going on?”

Wyatt’s jaw was so tight, it ached. He looked away from his cousin’s confounded face and his brothers’ stoic ones. The hostess who’d seated them was still moving around the tables, loading up her little round tray with empty glasses. He watched the sway of her shapely backside as she disappeared through the swinging kitchen door with her latest load. She looked about average height—shorter than the tall bartender—and from the gleaming auburn hair that she’d tied back in a knot to the high-heeled shoes she was wearing, she looked anything but average.

Watching her throughout the evening had at least provided a nice diversion when he’d felt his mood turning black.

“Maybe we need to go back to Atlanta,” Shane suggested. “Shutting that door is pretty damn permanent, Wy. Even you’ve got to admit that.”

Wyatt eyed his older brother. The eldest of his brothers at thirty-two, Shane was chief operating officer of JMF Financial. Slightly higher up the food chain than Wyatt was, but neither Wyatt’s nor Sawyer

’s or Asher’s stake in the future of the company was any less important. “We can discuss it later.”

“But—”

“He’s right,” Asher said quietly. He was only a year younger than Shane, and as was often the case, when he did speak up, he was the voice of reason. “This isn’t the place.”

“You’ve all lost your minds,” Michael muttered. He was older than them all, and cousins or not, was used to calling the shots. “Whatever is going on. You’re just gonna up and leave everything you’ve worked for at JMF. To stay in Red Rock.” He shook his head at what he clearly considered unfathomable, but thankfully dropped the subject and waved his finger over his squat glass. The bartender saw the signal, and poured him yet another shot.

The blonde was good at her job. Efficient. Didn’t linger, listening in. The reception had an open bar, but Wyatt figured he’d still leave the girl a healthy tip. She’d certainly earned it.

The voluptuous hostess slipped past again and Wyatt tracked her progress without really realizing it. The bartender was a pretty blonde who looked like she’d be just as at home batting around a volleyball on the beach as she did working behind the busy bar. In contrast, the hostess was a stunning knockout with enough curves to please a Formula 1 driver.

Wyatt wasn’t a race car driver. And while he usually tended toward tall, athletic women more like the bartender, he found himself definitely appreciating the hostess’s heady curves. Watching her was a lot more pleasurable than dwelling on the mess they’d left behind in Atlanta.

A mess that he and his brothers had had no hand in creating, but one they sure as hell had to live with.

The bartender stopped in front of him. “Sure I can’t get you something stronger, Mr. Fortune?”

He shook his head. He’d learned a long time ago that he couldn’t keep up with his brothers when it came to liquor. “I’ll stick with the soda, thanks.”

“Designated driver?”

“On occasion.” At this stage, neither his brothers nor his cousin looked like they were going to stop drinking anytime soon, so maybe he would be filling that role that night, as well. Michael had arrived at the reception with the wedding party in one of the limousines. Wyatt and his brothers had driven over in one of their rental cars.

“Let me know if I can get you anything else,” the bartender offered, and experience told Wyatt she wasn’t only talking about drinks. But even after conveying the message, she was already in motion again. Wyatt turned against the bar until it was behind his back and leaned on his elbows. He wasn’t interested in the bartender. He wasn’t interested in anyone.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of auburn hair and his gaze followed it.

“Hard to believe Emily’s married,” Michael mused, beside him.

Wyatt grunted in agreement. His died-in-the-wool career cousin had been as devoted to FortuneSouth Enterprises as her brother, Michael, still was. Like Wyatt and his brothers, his cousins had been raised up in their father’s Atlanta-based business, though FortuneSouth was a telecommunications company while Wyatt’s father, James Marshall Fortune, had founded the financial firm, JMF. Everyone in the family knew there was no love lost between James and his younger brother, John, even though only a few years separated them. James hadn’t even bothered coming to Red Rock for his niece’s wedding.

But everyone also knew that the two brothers were pretty much cut from the same cloth—workaholics who were driven to succeed, and had. Many times over.

John, however, had never pulled a stunt like Wyatt’s father, James, had. Not as far as he was aware, at least. Emily had quit working for her father because she’d followed in the footsteps of all of her siblings—save Michael—who’d transplanted themselves to Red Rock, all in the name of love.

“The Red Rock curse,” Michael murmured beside him, his thoughts obviously running the same course as Wyatt’s. “Weddings every time we turn around. Enough to give a man the willies.”

“Weddings aren’t always a curse,” Asher countered.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “How long ago did you sign those divorce papers of yours?”