by Maisey Yates
Because I want to marry him.
And I want to have his children.
Because I would be his ranch wife in this house or any house.
Because he was her dream. And that was the bottom line.
She was young, and she was supposed to go out and live. She knew that. She wasn’t supposed to want a man she had been completely hopeless over since she was twelve. She was supposed to experience more. Have more lovers. Travel. Something.
But she just didn’t want to.
And she had the sick, terrible feeling that—much like her mother—there was really only one man for her, and there would never be anything that would take away her feelings. So she didn’t want to waste time talking.
She flung herself into his arms, climbing up on the same chair as him, her legs on either side of his, the heart of her right up against where he was rapidly growing hard. And she kissed him. Kissed him until she thought she might die. Kissed him because she thought if she didn’t she might die.
He stole her oxygen and became it all at once, and she couldn’t have explained that feeling if she’d been put before a firing squad. She had never thought in terms of fate. She had always believed she was a pragmatist. But he felt like fate. This moment felt like fate. And she really couldn’t deny it. Didn’t really want to. Didn’t want it to end.
He stood up from the chair, and he swept their plates to the side, breaking them on the floor. “I owe you a set of dishes,” he said roughly.
“I don’t care,” she said.
Oh she really didn’t care. Because she just wanted him, wanted this. And nothing else mattered. Not plates, not anything. And she gave thanks that she had worn a dress, which she so rarely did, because it made everything easily accessible for him. Because then he had his hands at her hips. Had his fingers between her thighs, stroking her, stoking the fires of her desire. This was like madness. This was like every fantasy she’d ever had.
And she had a terrible feeling that it had been love she’d been feeling from the very beginning. Love and fate—and that was why. That was why it had been him from the time she was twelve years old. And it didn’t matter how much she wanted to deny it. It simply was. It simply, simply was. But he was here. He was here.
And he had broken dishes and cleared the table and was kissing her on top of it.
This table that had been an emblem of everything she’d been missing.
And she’d thought what she’d wanted had been some generic idea of a sitcom family. And she’d tried to shoehorn Jackson into that picture. But that wasn’t what she’d wanted. It hadn’t been quiet dinners that she was missing. It had been him. Just him. It wasn’t an aching for domesticity that she felt that first night they’d sat down to dinner together, it was a life spent with him. It had been things shared with this man that had called to her from the very first time she’d ever seen him.
It didn’t matter if the idea was crazy. It didn’t matter if she was younger than he was. It didn’t matter if she was just starting out. Because she knew.
He’d made fun of her the other day, when she’d said she’d understood all these things, but she did. She understood this. Now, suddenly, in his arms—she understood.
She loved him.
And that was all there was to it.
She loved him and she wanted to be with him. And whatever else she needed to experience, it didn’t matter. Because this was the one thing her heart and her body had known from the beginning. A lifetime spent feeling like she might always have to be second best, not quite so spectacular as her sisters, had seen her trying to find another explanation for how she felt. To find a way to protect her heart. But there was no protecting it, not now. She felt exposed. Cut open. She couldn’t hide or protect herself even if she wanted to. So she didn’t try. She surrendered to this madness between them.
And then he was inside of her, the table hitting up against the wall with each and every thrust. And he was amazing. In every way. And she let herself feel it. All of it. The love she felt for him expanding, growing in her chest, so much so that she thought she might burst. So much so that she nearly wept, and when her orgasm finally broke over her, she did. She shook and cried and held him, as his own release took him over.
And when it was done, he stood, and she just lay there, wrecked. The dishes on the floor a metaphor for her body.
“I…”
“Jackson,” she said, at the same time.
“Cricket, this has been… It’s been… The bet’s over.”
She just lay there, frozen, her arms spread wide, like a butterfly that had been pinned in place in a collection, unable to move, her back against the table.
“Are you leaving?”
“It’s the end of the bet,” he said again.
“Day thirty,” she said. “You almost left me that first night too. Why don’t you just…not.”
His eyes looked tormented then, pained. “I should have left you then. That’s the thing. Better late than never.”
“No…”
“But it has to be some time. I’ve got a ranch. I’ve got a life, and so do you.”
“Well, maybe don’t leave me with my fucking dinner plates on the floor, you asshole,” she said.
He didn’t flinch. Instead, he righted his clothing and went over to the corner, grabbed the broom and the dustpan. His actions reminded her so much of the first night he’d been here, when he had fixed things and she had swept, that she nearly cried. And she just lay there, naked, while he swept up the glass on the floor, but left all the pieces of her heart.
“If you ever need anything—if, when the horses come, you need something… You just let me know, Cricket.”
“No,” she said.
Because what she wanted from him, he wasn’t going to give.
The words were lumped in her throat, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask for them. And when he left her house, and she was there, nothing but misery, she had to wonder if she had changed at all.
Because she hadn’t said what needed to be said. She hadn’t. She’d just left it all there, in her chest, afraid of rejection.
What was the point? What was the point of any of it if she hadn’t gotten strong enough to say what she needed?
What was the damn point?
But she didn’t go after him. And for the next several days, she did nothing at all. Until she started to realize that something wasn’t right. Not just the loneliness or her heart. She was pretty upset by Jackson leaving, and by his not coming back, but not enough to screw with her cycle. And when she showed up at her sister Emerson’s house, practically shivering from the cold and clutching a bag that contained a pregnancy test, she was in a daze.
“What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t go to Wren. Because she is married to Creed.”
“Yes,” Emerson said, stepping back away from the door. “She is.”
Cricket stepped inside, and held up the test.
Emerson touched her stomach. “I’m actually good. But is there something you need to tell me?”
“Yes,” Cricket said. “I mean, maybe. I need to use your bathroom.”
“You know you can.”
“Please don’t tell anybody,” Cricket said.
“I won’t.”
She went into the bathroom, and didn’t come out for way longer than the prescribed number of minutes. It didn’t take long for Emerson to knock.
“I feel like your lack of communication indicates the test results were not what you wanted.” Her sister’s voice was soft through the door.
“No,” Cricket said. But even as she said that, she didn’t feel like it was true. She wasn’t devastated. She wasn’t even sad. It felt…right somehow. That there was no way she was going to get out of a relationship with Jackson without keeping something of him.
Without being changed.
“Honey,” Emerson said. “Open the door.”
And Cricket did, knowing she must look every inch the bedraggled insect her name suggested she might be.
“Whatever you need. I’m not here to judge. If you need a ride to anywhere, if you need me to provide you with an alibi while you collect a weapon to go kill someone…”
“No,” Cricket said.
“No to…”
“Any of those things. I’m fine. I mean, I will be. I’ve just got to…tell him.”
“And by him, do I take it you mean Jackson Cooper?”
“The very same. And I didn’t want Wren to tell Creed to kill him.”
“Well, I’m fixing to tell Holden to kill him, so all you’re really doing is sparing Creed’s conscience.”
“Please don’t kill him. I’ve got to tell him.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You look upset.”
“Well we’re not really…together anymore. So that kind of sucks.”
“Well, you don’t need him. You’ve got us. Whatever you want to do, you’ve got us.”
“I want to have a baby,” Cricket said. “And I didn’t think I did. But now that it’s happening… I mean, I guess it’s not a bad thing that I’m not horrendously unhappy about it.”
“Yeah,” Emerson said. “I guess so.”
“I just need…to see him. Before anything else.”
Emerson had been protective, but Cricket managed to extricate herself from her sister and get herself on her way to Jackson’s place. She had never been there before, and she was stunned by how impressive the modern ranch house was. All black windows, reddish wood siding and charcoal paint. An extraordinary collection of shapes and angles. So very different from the classic little farmhouse she had.
They were so different.
But…
At their core, they had plenty in common.
There was a reason they were in this situation, after all. Chemistry, for sure, but more than that.
She would never forget that day they had spent out on the picnic blanket. He might have been stern and cold the last time they made love. The last time she’d seen him, but that wasn’t the sum total of what they were as a couple.
A couple.
But they had never been that, had they? They’d been two people bonded together by a bed, by her pain and…
And glimmers of his. Which he had shared, but so sparingly. And she knew there was more to him. She did. Knew there was more to who he was and everything that he carried around inside of him, even if she didn’t know quite all what it was.
But this was the time, she supposed. This was where the rubber met the road and the…well, the positive pregnancy test met with their present reality.
She took a deep breath and got out of her truck, making her way up the paved walk that led to the large, flat entryway. The door was huge, and it made Cricket feel tiny. She stood there and took a breath, trying not to be reminded of feeling tiny in other circumstances. Standing outside the door to her father’s office. Sitting way down at the end of a long banquet table, feeling lost in the family villa.
No, this was different. Because she was standing there a changed woman from who she’d been back then. When she’d just been a girl. When she hadn’t known who she was or what she wanted. When he called her little Cricket, it wasn’t a bad thing. And she didn’t mind. When he said it, it somehow made her feel special, protected. And right now, she was protecting a life inside of her. And that made her feel strangely powerful. Renewed and changed.
She’d never really thought about being a mother. And in fact, in passing, had thought she wouldn’t be. After all, her own experiences with family hadn’t been any good. But she didn’t feel tied to that. Not now. Not anymore. Whatever the Maxfields were, it didn’t make Cricket Maxfield one of them. It didn’t mean she had to repeat their legacy over and over again. Somehow, that little inner boosting helped buoy her on, and she raised her hand and knocked on the solid oak door. She shook her hand out, because it hurt. And she wasn’t even sure it had made a sound in the gigantic space.
But then, the door opened, and she jumped back. Because there he was, standing in the doorway wearing a tight black T-shirt, jeans and a black cowboy hat. And he looked…well, amazing.
“Hi,” she said.
“Cricket,” he responded. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, that’s not the friendliest greeting.”
“Sorry. Do you want to come in?”
“Probably should.”
He opened the door, and let her into the room made of the same wood as the exterior of the house, glossy black details punctuating the rustic look, making it feel somehow modern. The room was huge, square, with a ceiling so tall it brought her back to that place of smallness.
Of course, Jackson and all his height contributed to that, as well.
“We need to talk,” she said. “The way you left me… I wanted you to stay.”
“Yes, and I explained that I couldn’t.” His jaw was tight, his expression firm.
“Yeah, and you didn’t give me a good reason. So I’d like to hear it. I really would.”
Before she told him what she had to say, she wanted to know what he might say to her without that information.
“It’s complicated.”
“No. Complicated is having a crush on a man for years, then finding out he might be your half brother, then wanting to sleep with him anyway. Then finding out he’s not your half brother and sleeping with him for the duration of a thirty-day wager. That’s complicated. So, we’ve been through complicated already, so whatever else you have on your mind, whatever else you have to tell me, is not going to touch that. I think we can figure it out. Trust me when I say I’m pretty resilient.”
“All right, Cricket,” he said. “You really want to have this conversation?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I don’t want to get married. I mean, what’s the point? It just two people being tied together for no particular reason that I can see.”
“So, why does there have to be marriage? Why can’t we just be together?”
“I would never want to be responsible for not loving someone enough. For doing to them what my father did to my mother. And at the end of the day, whether I admire or look up to him or not, I’m Cash Cooper’s son.”
“And I’m James Maxfield’s daughter, but I’m not going to sexually harass anyone. I’m not going to treat my kids like an afterthought and my wife…well, husband, like a trophy. It doesn’t matter whose son you are. What matters is what kind of man you are. And that’s your choice.”
“Okay then, it’s my choice not to put myself in a position where I could hurt someone that way.”
“So you don’t think you could love me.”
She stared at him, willing herself not to break his gaze. Not to be a wimp. She would brazen this out. She just would.
“It’s not you.”
“Oh, it’s not you, it’s me. Very original. You know, Jackson, I expected better from you. Better from us. For us. We are not like anyone else. So don’t be a cliché now.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you…”
“Another good one. Who writes your dialogue? Because it’s not very good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jackson felt like a bomb had been dropped in the middle of his living room. It was like watching a horror movie. Looking back on the last few weeks. Sitting there, wanting to tell the idiot not to go into that house, but he’d gone in anyway. And now here he was. Exactly the thing he’d been trying to avoid.
She was pregnant.
That was absolutely everything that he hadn’t wanted to happe
n.
“When did you find out?”
“Literally an hour ago? I went to my sister’s house—not the one who is married to your brother—and then I came straight here.”
“What the hell are we going to do?”
“Well, the unfortunate thing is I was kinda hoping you would have something better to say than what you just did.”
“You understand that we can’t get married.”
“Well, fantastic,” Cricket said. “I figure I’ll just find another man to marry, then.”
“You damn well will not.”
“But you don’t want to marry me. Then maybe somebody should. Because maybe I care about that kind of thing.” She took a big, deep breath. “Maybe I care about tradition and I don’t want my child to be a bastard. Did you ever think about that?”
“Well, do you?”
“No. What I care about is the fact that you’re being ridiculous. We are good together.”
“And this is exactly the kind of thing I wanted to avoid. This obligation. This idea that two people have to be together. For the sake of the child. Do you know what it does to a child, Cricket? I was worried about you. About what I might do to you if I couldn’t be what you needed… But a kid. Dammit, that kid is basically me. You know what it’s like to find out you’re the unhappy glue that held your parents together for better or for worse? Mostly worse?”
“We already talked about this. It’s all about choices and—”
“But I’ve seen what it does. If I committed to that, if I committed to you… I would never let you leave.”
“Great. I don’t want to leave,” she said. “I want to be with you. I want to stay with you. Why is that bad? Why would it be so wrong?”
“I don’t love you,” he said, the words scraping his throat raw, and he knew they felt wrong. He knew they were wrong. But he couldn’t find any other words. Couldn’t figure out what else to say, what else might come from that hammering feeling in his chest.
“What if I said I loved you?”
“That’s what we can’t do, Cricket. We cannot have that. We would make each other miserable. I would make you miserable.”
