Baby Maker (It Takes Two 1)

The thing is, I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I cannot believe that I allowed myself to fall under his spell. I don’t blame the sales girl either. She never stood a chance under the magnetic force that is Dane Wylder. I fell for it and I’ve been vaccinated against this particular virulent disease. I have Paul Donovan to thank for that.

Turning back to the sales person, I take the receipt she hands me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Hormones––they’re wreaking havoc.”

“Oh, I get the same way when I get my period,” she replies in the sweetest drawl.

“Thanks for your help,” I tell her in an apologetic tone.

With that I walk away from the counter, and the two of them. A second later a big hand grabs a hold of my upper arm. I stop and turn, my expression not a happy one.

“You didn’t answer me?”

“No, Dane. You did nothing. Like I said, it’s the hormones.”

He looks pensive, his sexy lips pursed as he’s mulling this over. “We should get you some ice cream.”

I don’t know whether to laugh, or cry. He genuinely thinks ice cream is the solution to our problem? Then again he doesn’t have a problem.

I’m the one with the urge. I’m the one with the craving. Unless ice cream comes in a flavor called Sweaty Sex With Dane, I don’t want it…and about as smart as jumping out of a plane with no parachute. The ride will be fast and thrilling and most certainly prove painful when I hit bottom.

“What does ice cream have to do with it?”

“Maybe it’ll make you nicer. You know, take the edge off.”

My eyes automatically narrow. “Maybe we need to give each other space.”

“No,” he huffs, arms crossed in front of his broad chest, his shirt straining against the swell of his pecs, expression locked in the determined position.

“No?”

“No. No space. I see what you’re doing here. This is some kinda female mental jujitsu. You say you want space, but you don’t really want it.”

I’m seconds from punching him in the nut sac, which is almost directly in my line of sight. There is something to be said about being short. Or for him being grotesquely tall.

“I…I’m going to…I can’t.” I flee to the cosmetics department in search of the Holy Grail, a flat iron, before I do or say something I’ll regret.

And find one. Thank the Lord. This goes a small way to propping up my mood. I’m almost tempted to purchase two. My hair is not something to be trifled with.

“What is that?” A deep masculine voice cuts into my decision making. I look up and find him hanging over my shoulder.

“It’s a flat iron.”

“For what?” Dane reaches for one on the display case. As he inspects the pictures on the box, his face hardens. “Put it back.”

I don’t answer.

“Put. It. Back.”

It’s official. He’s lost his mind. I say nothing, this caveman talk will not be granted a reply. With any hope, he’ll get the clue and shut up.

“You are not using this on your hair,” he continues.

“I don’t even know what to say to that. There isn’t…I don’t even…I’m going to pretend this whole trip to the store never happened and vow never to walk into another store with you ever again. In the meantime, step away from the display case and allow me to make a purchase.”

His expression loses its hard edge, turning soft and supplicating. “Your hair is real pretty and soft now. And you want to make it look like it did before, all flat and straight?”

Whaaaat?

In the background, someone coughs. I steal a furtive glance in that direction and discover every single woman in the department staring back at us. “People are watching us,” I mutter.

“Let ’em watch.”

A couple of flashes go off. No doubt someone is taking video. Of me and my mangled hair. And my overbearing baby daddy who takes issue with my hair being flat. I hope to God I can look back on this one day and laugh about it but not now. Definitely not now.

“Uhhh, yeah, that’s the idea. Flat and straight. Not this hot mess.”

His jaw stiffens, his gaze moving to the side. “I like it like this.”

We stand there awkwardly for far too long. Him shifting on his sneakers, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his jeans. Me slack-jawed, staring up at him.

Invasion of the body snatchers. That’s the only way I can explain what happens next. Very slowly, I place the flat iron back on the display case while my vanity screams at me not to be stupid, that he’s a man and doesn’t know shit about shit. But I don’t listen because I know how hard it was for him to say what he said and I don’t want to let him down.

My mother would crucify me if she knew, not to mention what Delia would say and do. I shudder to think. Though I’m pretty sure a horse whip would be involved.

“I need shoes,” I murmur while staring longingly at the display of flat irons. When that’s met with silence, I look up and find a soft smile on Dane’s face. His fingers gently wrap around my wrist and tug me away.

After I managed to find a pair of boots that did not make me look like a rhinestone cowgirl, we picked up lunch at a gourmet restaurant and headed to the hospital.

While we ate, Mr. Wylder regaled me with stories about Dane’s childhood. During which the person in question sat quietly in the corner, sullenly feigning disinterest, and devoured his food.

Much to his chagrin, I now know that Dane was still wetting the bed at five and his first word was kiss. Apparently, his mother was always asking for a kiss and Dane took to kissing like a boss. Hence, a player was born.

After lunch and story time, Mr. Wylder was ready for a nap and we headed back to the ranch. Dane parks the truck and, staring out the window, says, “I want to show you somethin’. You up for it?”

My interest immediately piqued, I say, “Yes.”

He j

umps out and opens my door before I can. Taking my hand, he helps me down and leads me to the barn.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he murmurs as we both peer over the stall door, side by side, elbows touching. I’m acutely aware of the heat traveling between us and it makes me edgy.

In the stall, big dark eyes peer back. She’s beautiful, her coat a gunmetal gray. Not only are her eyes big, so is her belly.

“Please tell me she’s pregnant,” I say even though I’m pretty sure of the answer.

“She sure is. Due any day now.”

“What’s her name?”

“Double D Ranch’s Big Bad Mac Daddy’s Little Mistress.” A thousand-watt grin rips across his gorgeous face. It holds my attention a beat too long. Dane catches me staring at his mouth and his smile slips. My humiliation complete, I look away.

“Excuse me?”

“We call her Missy. The other is her show name.”

“She’s a show pony, huh?”

“Missy takes umbrage at being called a pony. She’s the leading competition cuttin’ horse in the country. She and Levi have won everything there is to win.”

“Levi trained her?”

“Yep…Missy’s got more cow sense than any horse I’ve ever seen,” he tells me, love in his eyes for the round little mare.

“What does that mean?”

“Cutting horses serve to separate cows from the herd. The horse does most of the work. Missy’s a natural thinker. She can anticipate a change in direction, when the cow or calf is looking to run, better than the rider can. A good cuttin’ horse is invaluable to a rancher. Missy here is so good she’s strictly a show horse though.”

“Cute.”

“Cute? She’s worth a little over half a million.”

My mouth hangs open. I couldn’t possibly have heard right. “Did you say half a million dollars?”

“’Bout six hundred k.”

“For a horse?!” Dane nods. “Wow, good for Missy.”

While Dane’s attention remains on the horse, I take my time drinking him in. He’s in his element. The clean air, the sun. It takes a physical person to survive and flourish in a place like this, even with all the luxuries, and Dane is definitely a physical man. The kind that if forced behind a desk, he’d suffer…like a sport’s show set desk.