Stella

“No, Pops…no, don’t…” Dane says into his cell phone. Glancing down at me, he shakes his head and rubs his temple. I bite back a smile.

Mr. Wylder was not happy to be told he had to stay at the hospital two more nights. I know what a stubborn parent sounds like and I can foresee Dane getting many angry phone calls between now and the moment he gets picked up.

Last night was weird. Shortly after the dinner I cooked, the fricasé de pollo, a classic Cuban chicken stew my mother taught me how to make, one of only a few things I can make outside of the basics, we settled in the enormous den to watch a movie, both of us acting like this is common practice when we both know it isn’t.

The minute I returned from the bathroom and sat on the couch next to him, Dane decided that it was the perfect time for a workout. Alone, and quite frankly a little lonely, I called Delia and got voicemail. Turns out it was a date night. After that I went to bed.

First order of business today is getting me some clothes and a flat iron. Although, I managed to coerce my hair back in a ponytail this morning, it’s already getting puffy and curling around my hairline.

Dane opens the doors to Dillard’s and we both enter, his hand on the small of my back, his steady presence next to me. I’m ashamed to say I bask in it, revel in it even. Which only ends up depressing me because at least before I had no idea what I was missing.

“I know the food isn’t…okay but…” he tells his father. Trying to pacify Mr. Wylder is beginning to seem an impossible task and to Dane’s credit, he’s been having this conversation since the crack of dawn and hasn’t lost his temper once.

Side note: it hasn’t escaped my notice that witnessing how patient he is with his father means he’ll be patient with our child. I grasp onto this discovery with both hands and hold it close to my heart.

“No, you’re not. And if you give me one more minute of grief, Stella and I are gettin’ on the next flight back to New York…that’s what I thought…okay. We’ll see you in a couple of hours. Yep.”

I stand corrected.

Ending the call, he exhales tiredly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“He was seconds from runnin’ out of there bare-assed. I had to steal his clothes last night ’cause I knew what was coming.”

“Oh,” is all I can say, a smile overtaking my face.

“Let’s get you some clothes.”

Shopping is a chore for me, and a total waste of time. I’m not a happy shopper. I want to walk into a store, find what I need, and leave as quickly as possible. Preferably without having to try anything on. That’s the reason I have my personal shopper at Armani send me two styles of suits every season. No thinking required is how I want to get ready for work in the morning.

Dane is the complete opposite. If this ESPN thing doesn’t work out, he should go into personal shopping as a second career.

“Try these on.” He hands me a pair of dark skinny jeans and a white silk blouse with long sleeves through the crack of the dressing room door.

“I don’t know what’s more disturbing. The fact that you, a man that always wears worn-out jeans and never ever combs his hair, is giving me fashion advice. Or that I actually like what you picked out.” I pull on the jeans and throw on the blouse. Perfect. They fit perfectly.

“Darlin’, just ’cause I don’t primp like a show pony doesn’t mean I don’t know what looks good on a woman.”

At the mention of other women, I deflate instantly. Of course he knows what looks good on a woman. Who knows how many he’s undressed. My mood tumbles down a bottomless dark hole. I step out of the stall wearing that mood as well as the new clothes.

“What’s wrong?” Avoiding his searching gaze, I walk past him.

“Nothing. And I told you not to call me that,” I say a touch too sharply. I couldn’t care less whether he noticed or not at this point. I snap the tags off the jeans and shirt and stuff my dress under my arm.

“Hey.”

“I’m going to pay.”

On the way to the cash register I swipe two pairs of black leggings and a hooded sweatshirt off a display without even bothering to check prices or sizes. By the time I reach the counter to pay, I notice the sweatshirt has “Princess” scrawled in pink rhinestones on the back.

Normally, I’d gouge out my eyes with a spoon before wearing such a thing. With Dane on my heels, however, I don’t have the luxury of time to switch it with something less repulsive.

“Let me get it,” he says, standing much too close for my comfort. It’s downright suffocating.

“Not a chance, darlin’,” I drawl, giving him a dose of his own medicine.

I hand the youngish sales lady my tags and bury my gaze inside my purse in search of my wallet. When I look up, I find a loopy smile on her face and it’s directed at him. The happy bastard smiles right back.

“Are you two done? Can I pay for these, or would you like to go on a date before you ring me up?”

They both turn to stare. She’s cherry red and pushing all the wrong buttons on the register while Dane’s busy scowling at me. I hand her my credit card without taking my eyes off of him.

“Did I do something to you, Stella?”

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 jumps 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.

“Why’d you leave? You look like you enjoy being here.”

Sighing deeply, he hangs his head. “This place reminds me of my mother.”

When our eyes meet, his are clouded, by the sound of it filled with memories he’d probably rather forget. He pauses and frowns.

“All the bullshit she put my father through…It was real hard to watch. My pops is the best man I know. I hated seeing him hurt.”

I have no words to console him. His story hits too close to home. There’s only silence after that. A stretch of it. It’s comfortable though. In the same way it is when you share it with a good friend, or a great book.

“I was twelve. Alex was outside playing.” I catch Dane watching me, and he doesn’t look away. “I’d gone in to use the bathroom and heard crying…it was my mother. She’d turned on the shower and put a towel over her mouth but I heard her. She was crying hysterically.”

“Why was she crying?” His voice is low and warm, rolling over me as softly as a cashmere blanket.

“The Houston Police Department called to say my father was involved in a domestic dispute. The woman’s husband came home and found them in bed. He shot them both.”

The memory takes me back instantly, the feelings so raw I sometimes wonder if we don’t store them in our bodies the same way we do a dormant virus waiting to rear its ugly head every so often.

“Later that night my mother told us he was killed. I remember thinking good riddance. I wanted her to divorce him.”

“Did she?”

“No. He was a trucker, gone a lot. It wasn’t the first time she caught him lying about a job. And still she refused to divorce him.” The memory still makes me mad.

A large hand covers mine, the one resting on the top of the stall door. When I try to pull it away, he won’t let me. Instead he gently wraps his rough fingertips around my wrist and holds on, his thumb brushing back and forth over my pulse point. I look up and find his expression uncharacteristically sober.

“Where’s your mother now?” I ask.

He lets go of me and returns to leaning on the stall door, forearm hanging over the top.

“Barstow, California.” His hands stretch and tighten into fists. “She runs a roadside diner with her boyfriend.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not as long as she doesn’t contact my father. Why do you think I bought it for her?”

His unguarded eyes meet mine and I nod in understanding.

The warm touch of a muzzle on my fingers gets my attention, the whiskers ticklish. I pet the velvet soft skin between Missy’s nostrils and she nudges me back.

“Don’t we make a fine pair,” I say to myself more than anything.

“I think we do.” Dane’s voice is deep and clear, straightforward. It makes my heart race. It makes me want things, the very things I’ve been trying to avoid all my life.

My attention works back up to him. There’s a profound sincerity in his steady gaze. And maybe, just maybe, the promise of something more.