Bucking the Rules(91)

“What’d she do with you?”

“I got dragged along sometimes.” Rip. Tear. Open. Push aside. “Sometimes I ended up in decent boarding schools or private schools or whatever.”

“And you liked that, as a kid?”

“Hated it,” she answered automatically, then cursed herself. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not talking about husband hopping here. This isn’t about my mom. We’re talking about a kid who needs adults in his life who can be there for him and handle childrearing. Who won’t one day wake up and regret having him in their life because they’re over being a parent and want to try some … thing … new … .”

Stu smiled smugly. “This isn’t about your mom, huh? Sounds like you just lapsed there. Mixing up your past and your present.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, then realized she was wrinkling the electric bill. Smoothing it back down, she nodded to the door. “Don’t you have a grill to man?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stopped by and kissed the top of her forehead. “You know, you’ve got more people in your life you can count on now. People who give a damn and don’t see you as inconvenient. Who want to watch you move up in the world and are willing to give you a boost to get there.”

“Thanks.” She watched him walk out the door, then stood and took the sippie cup from the kitchen. “This is stupid. Why am I keeping this?”

The sippie cup, predictably, didn’t answer.

“You’re not some magical talisman binding me to them. I’m not going to die if I throw you away. They’re not going to die. It’s not like I’ll never see them again, right? Small town. I’ll catch glimpses now and then. And the gossip … well, maybe I’ll have to start paying attention. Why am I talking to you again?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought one of the cowboy boots might have mocked her.

“Whatever.” She slammed the cup back down on the counter and headed for the bathroom. She was losing her mind, all over a fucking cup.

As she ripped off layer after layer of clothing, she acknowledged Stu had a point. Maybe her lack of a normal, steady childhood had something to do with her inability to see herself having a typical, Cleaver-style family. Or some variation thereof. But again, it wasn’t just her who would be screwed if she didn’t listen to her instincts. It was Seth.

Were her selfish desires worth possibly throwing him in the middle of a clusterfuck?





Chapter Twenty-one


Trace brushed over Lad’s coat in slow, even strokes, front to back, following the lines of the horse’s muscle. He’d been doing this far too long, but as if Lad understood he needed the time, the horse patiently stood, leaning into each brushstroke and letting him think.

He’d checked the tack every morning since discovering Bea’s little secret. He’d asked once, just to test her, if she wanted to go riding with him one afternoon. She’d stared at him as if he’d grown two extra heads. So she was sticking to her act. He could do the same. At least for now.

Lad snuffled and shuffled his feet. Trace soothed with some cooing and a few clucks of his tongue. Much as his touch calmed Lad, the rhythmic motions soothed Trace’s chaotic mind enough to let thoughts truly connect and form more coherent ideas.

He needed to try again. Bringing Seth over to Jo’s apartment had been a mistake, one he should have anticipated. Though he had meant it to be just a short visit, and they’d been getting along so well. She’d bought Seth a sippie cup to keep at her place. That meant something.

Bea’s accident was ill-timed, but just because Seth had had a crabby afternoon, that didn’t mean Jo was doing anything wrong. She needed to see that. Needed to get it through her mind that Trace wasn’t in this for a nanny. That he wanted her. Just her. He could get his own flipping nanny if he needed to. But he had a feeling that wouldn’t be necessary. He’d watched Seth’s face, entranced with Jo’s attention. And her own eyes lit when she made Seth smile. They were crazy about each other … she just wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Wasn’t ready to look past her own fears to see it.

But how the hell did he prove to her he wanted her, bar and all?

“Trace?”

“Yeah, hey, Morgan.” He sighed quietly and kissed his introspective time good-bye.

Their vet, and Trace’s childhood friend, walked over to Lad’s stall and rested his elbows on the door. “How are things?”

“You know, trucking along.” He let the brush fall into the bucket by the door and stepped out. Over the door he handed Lad a carrot and rubbed the animal’s nose in silent thanks for giving him some alone time. “What are you up to? Red call you over?”