8. Cassidy

Red: I have scalloped, baked, mashed, AND roasted for tonight.

Cass: Weird way to propose, but yes.

"Cassidy Bowman, you're flirting with him." Blair's voice echoes through my bathroom over speakerphone. "I bet you're shaving your legs in that bath, aren't you?"

"It's friendly banter, that's all. And, if it comes off a bit flirty, it's not my fault. I blame this weird-ass body of mine." I drag the razor up my calf as silently as possible. I don't need her judging me for shaving. It doesn't mean anything. I have to shave all the damn time thanks to my PCOS. "It's like the moment I stopped wanting to vomit every two seconds, my body decided I need orgasms just as often. I'm taking a break from binging Gossip Girl because the vivid dreams I've been having about Chuck Bass are making me blush every time he shows up on the screen."

"Then I don't understand why you don't hook up with your baby daddy. Are you worried about getting double-pregnant? Or his dick hitting the baby? What's your reasoning?"

"I really love hearing a nurse practitioner say all of that. Very reassuring about both our education and healthcare systems."

I doubt Red would turn me down, but things have been so nice. He's been so nice. Honestly, I've maybe been taking advantage of it a little bit because he seems to do anything I ask of him. The last thing I want to do is mess things up to scratch an itch. An itch a vibrator handles perfectly well. Most of the time.

"For the record, I know neither of those can happen… Well, superfetation technically can, but it's pretty rare. Anyway, I'm trying to gauge where your head is at. You're the one who mentioned your text messages with him. Sue me for assuming that was because you wanted to hear my thoughts."

"Go on," I say in an unenthused tone.

"How many days in the last week has he stopped by your house?"

"Three, I think? Four, if you count the day he dropped off food here when I was at work. Mostly he stops by briefly to drop off snacks he thinks I might like or dinner when I'm working late. He's making sure I'm eating enough because I've been so sick—nothing more."

"How often do you text?"

"Pretty often… probably every day. But we're trying to become friends. Y'know, for the sake of the child we're going to have together."

"He's attractive, feeds you, and is at your house all the time, anyway. Why are you not jumping all over this opportunity?"

"Because, for one, it's Red. For two, it'll ruin any possibility of us having a non-toxic co-parenting relationship. I'm trying to keep this all professional. I can't be trusted with oxytocin—you know this. I'm so delusional, if a guy is sort of nice to me I fall in love with him. I mean… clearly, because I refuse to believe staying in a relationship with Derek for a year was the result of anything but delusion."

She wheezes out a yes around her laughter.

"Add in raging pregnancy hormones, and I'm fucked. I'll fall for him because he cooked me potatoes, then realize how crazy I'm being a few months from now, everything will implode, and we'll still have to co-parent. So it's staying strictly professional between us."

"Ah, yes. Talking about eating mashed potatoes off of each other is super professional." I swear I can hear her rolling her eyes. "So if you're not going to hook up with Red, why don't you go out on some dates? Go enjoy your hot body and childless freedom."

"I'm already a blimp. I'm so bloated and gross."

"You sent me the tiniest bump pic yesterday. I know that's not true, dummy. Chuck Bass and your vibrator aren't going to tide you over forever."

"They don't need to work forever. Just long enough to get me through this strange pregnancy symptom. Maybe a few weeks or months. I'm sure I'll be too tired and uncomfortable to want anybody near me eventually."

She laughs. "Right. So you technically could hook up and then go back to being whatever you two currently are when you're no longer horny."

"Red is not even under consideration, and you know my feelings about dating guys around here. So I don't really know what you expect me to do."

"That was a dumb rule even before you got pregnant. If you're never going to date guys living within 100 kilometres of Wells Canyon, move away."

I pull the drain plug and wrap a towel around myself, grabbing moisturizer from the cupboard and honing in on my legs. Only because I don't want dry skin. Literally no other reason.

"Well, moving's no longer an option. So…" As if I need a reminder that now there's absolutely zero chance of me leaving my hometown.

When I'm facing the mirror, I look a bit puffier all over, but mostly like myself. All of the throwing up during the first thirteen weeks actually caused me to drop ten pounds. Nothing hurts quite like having the doctor declare I had at least that much I could stand to lose. I sobbed and ate French fries for the entire hour-long drive home. Thankfully, Red hadn't been available to join me for that appointment.

It's when I study myself from the side it becomes more obvious. Not too noticeable to anybody except me—mostly looks like I ate a big meal. With the weather getting cooler, I should be able to hide my growing stomach with sweatshirts and layers. Even still, the little bump is a reminder that I'm running on borrowed time before my being pregnant will be more than just a rumour… and everybody in town will know Red's the father. Which is exactly why we need to be a united front. Two friends with a baby. Nothing more. Ever.

"You're still coming down after Christmas, right?" Blair asks. "I don't have the desire to spend a full two weeks with my parents."

I finish meticulously coating my stomach in the moisturizer Red gave me. Doesn't matter that Blair told me stretch marks are mostly determined by genetics—I'm doing everything in my power to prevent them.

"Duh. Now that I'm not constantly vomiting, I'm no longer completely housebound. It'll be like a little babymoon."

"Since you want to be difficult about Red, I'm making sure you get laid when you're here. That'll be my early push present."

"Jesus Christ. I'm going to be massively pregnant by then. Go get laid, yourself." A shock of cold air rushes across my body when I open the bathroom door and pad over to the closet.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm too busy for dating."

I roll my eyes, sure she can sense it even though she can't see me, and shove my legs into a pair of jeans. "Oh, for fuck sakes. I can't button my favourite jeans—the ones that make my ass look amazing. I told you I'm a blimp."

"You were going to wear amazing-ass jeans to have dinner—at your house—with a guy you have zero intentions of sleeping with? Seems a little suspect."

"I'm hanging up now." I chuck the jeans into the back of my closet with a groan and fall back onto the bed, listening to my best friend giggle maniacally on the other end.

"Good call. Better go get prettied up for your date. Wear leggings. They're comfy, don't make it seem like you're trying too hard, and make your ass look great. Guys love them. Bye, babe. Love you."

I genuinely thought he was kidding. But, arms loaded with cloth grocery bags, Red shuffles past me in the doorway and strides toward the kitchen, seemingly quite serious about his offer to cook me dinner. When he suggested it, I assumed he'd get the girls back at Wells Ranch to make something.

"I premade some of the stuff, but I need your kitchen to finish up."

"Are you sure you're capable of cooking?" I follow and start unbagging the groceries next to him. Thankfully, he seems to have brought everything he could ever possibly need, clearly anticipating that I'd lack even the most basic of ingredients. I squint to read the label on a fresh green herb I don't recognize. "I refuse to believe you can even pronounce tarragon."

"Pronounce it, cook with it. Hell, I can spell it, which I'm sure shocks you," he says as he washes his hands and gets right to work. "I might've played hooky in high school more often than I should've. Definitely wasn't a perfect, straight A student like you were, but I'm not a complete dumbass."

"Didn't say you were." Thought it, maybe. Implied it, definitely. "I don't have the faintest idea what to use tarragon in." I hop onto the counter and settle in.

"Good thing you're not the one cooking then."

"Why are you cooking? I heard the word potato and agreed instinctively, but you didn't need to come over and actually cook dinner."

"Whatever my baby wants, my baby gets."

Thank God he doesn't look up from cutting radishes, because his words send my heart into a fluttery overdrive, and my jaw hangs slack. Then it dawns on me. He's talking about the literal baby in my uterus, and I'm an idiot. An embarrassed warmth prickles up my chest and neck.

"Oh… um. Right. Of course." I fumble my words, sliding off the counter to go bury my stupid, flushed face in the fridge while I pretend to search for something. Anything to keep him from noticing how weird I feel.

It's the pregnancy. It is. If I weren't teeming with hormones, there's nothing Red could say to trigger a reaction like this.

Either oblivious to my humiliation or wanting to save me from myself, Red clears his throat. "Did you ever have cooking class with Mrs. Carr?"

"Every single year from grade eight through twelve."

"Remember the way she pronounced oregano?"

Laughter bursts out of me. "Oh. My. God. I forgot all about or-ah-gah-no. She was trying to fancy up one of the most common herbs ever. And that's not even the way Italians say it."

"School couldn't afford any nicer ingredients, so just make up your own, I guess." He pauses his chopping to beam at me.

"She loved making up pronunciations, period," I say. "I feel bad for anyone who might've ordered a tiramisu at a restaurant after taking her class."

The way we laugh together feels like we've been friends our entire lives, not two people who have barely interacted while existing inside the same small town bubble for all these years. My cheeks ache, and my heart could burst as I lean against the counter next to him, giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I watch him work intently—slicing, dicing, doing whatever that maneuver is where you flip food around in a frying pan. "I guess it should come as no surprise I took her cooking class for years and still can't cook to save my life. I can turn the oven on, but that's about where my abilities end."

"That was the one class I didn't skip. If I wasn't on the ranch, I'd probably try to find work in a kitchen or something. I like cooking… and eating." He aggressively slaps his stomach, which sounds firm. Muscled. Not at all like my squishy belly. "Good thing 'bout being a cowboy is you don't need to be ripped to get ladies. Dirty jeans and a hat make 'em feral."

Easy to say when, based on how muscular his arms are and how solid the stomach-slap sounded, he is ripped.

"Maybe if the only girls you're interested in are buckle bunnies."

"Worked on you, didn't it?" He winks.

"Alcohol worked on me. Turns out, enough beer and tequila can make me overlook the filthy jeans, sweaty cowboy hat, and arrogant personality."

I look him over, taking full advantage of his back being turned to me. No dusty jeans or hat in sight. Just clean, fitted Wranglers with a Skoal ring permanently marked in the back pocket, a flannel button-up with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, and thick, tousled mahogany hair.

"If you weren't pregnant with my kid, I'd offer you a shot right now, Cass. See if you'd overlook some things again."

"If I wasn't pregnant with your kid, I never would've let you into my house." I take a slow sip of water and watch the muscle in his forearm as he adjusts the dial on my gas range. The dark veins branching under his tattooed skin send blood directly to the area between my legs.

Shit, this was a bad idea considering how horny I've been lately.

"Guess it's a good thing I knocked you up, then."

Yup. Bad idea.

Instead of jumping him, I busy myself by setting the table. Reminding myself over and over that I'm turned on because I'm pregnant. Hormones, increased blood flow, and finally feeling less nauseous and tired. That's the only reason why I can't stop staring at him like something I want to sink my teeth into. Hooking up might seem worth it now but, when my sex drive slows to normal, it's bound to fall apart. Which is the last thing I want to deal with when I'm going to be stuck co-parenting with this guy.

"Red?" I sit down as he shuffles serving dishes around on my small kitchen table, struggling to find room for all the food he's prepared. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something. We probably should've covered this when you told me you're all in but, honestly, I didn't even think you'd stick around this long. I just… um, I need to know that when you say you're all in, you know what that means. You're promising to be here for the baby, kid, teen, and adult. It's not as simple as being here until you don't want to be or until they turn eighteen. Even if things are shitty between us or the kid turns into a menace."

"I know what I signed up for, y'know? No need to explain."

I shouldn't have to explain it. But I do. Because apparently nobody had this conversation with my mom when they should've, and I refuse to let my baby deal with the same unreliability I did.

I let out a strained exhale. "I'm sure you're aware it's always been me and Dad. My mom was in and out of my life for most of my childhood. Sometimes I think I would've been better off if she had stayed away altogether. I won't put my child through that. So, if you have any doubts, leave now and let me do this on my own."

His face twists. "Not getting rid of me that easy, sweetheart."

Lost in thought, I hardly register that he just called me sweetheart again.

"Does that mean you understand and plan on being here? Or…"

"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" He smiles and slices through a piece of steak. "You're stuck with me, as much as I'm sure you hate that. Get used to it."

I'm surprised to find I don't hate it. Not at all.

And, by the time we're standing side-by-side washing the dinner dishes, I'm enjoying hanging out with him. The conversation has been easy and fun. We've covered important topics like which people we hated in high school, the worst baby names we've ever heard, and whether my kitchen is organized correctly—obviously it is, and Red is enjoying himself too much getting me riled up over it.

"Please. Please explain why the oven mitts, of all things, don't go in this drawer next to the oven," he says—thoroughly tattooed, muscular, all-man, and talking to me through a makeshift oven mitt puppet. Even if this was a conversation worth taking seriously, there's no way I could when I'm hung up on the idea of sticking googly eyes on that mitt before the next time he comes over.

Is there going to be a next time?My breathing stutters—I definitely want there to be a next time.

"Because that drawer is the only one big enough to fit my Ziploc bag organizer," I answer matter-of-factly, putting away our clean plates.

He blinks at me, both his mouth and the puppet's agape. "They come in boxes. Why can't they just be left that way and put somewhere else?"

"Well, this is more organized. But also, it's about the aesthetic. Something I wouldn't expect you to understand, considering you live in a bunkhouse, and your closet is probably a sea of Carhartt and Wrangler." I swipe the mitt from his hand and tuck it into the drawer where it belongs.

He leans against the counter with raised eyebrows and a goofy grin. "You're something else, Cassidy."

It's the way my name rolls off his tongue, or the playful gleam in his eyes, or the way he's made me laugh more tonight than Derek did in an entire year, or the corded muscle in his forearms. Or it could be—probably is—a combination that makes my heart race. And, while he has no reason to stay, I don't think I want him to leave quite yet.

"Do you want to hang out for a bit longer?" I nod my head in the direction of the living room on the other side of the archway.

"Yeah, for sure."

"I have a doctor's appointment next week, by the way. No pressure at all, but you said you wanted to know these things." We settle onto the plush grey couch, and I wrap a blanket around myself, wiggling my toes to ensure they're fully tucked in. "I understand if you have work to do. I know mid-week isn't the most convenient. And, like… it's not a very exciting appointment. They basically just check my blood pressure and ask how I'm feeling."

"No. I'll talk to Austin, but I'm sure I can make it work, if you want me to come."

"I felt like a potato-shaped lump of trash after my last appointment, and it would be nice to know if the doctor's a dickhead, or if I'm hormonal and crazy. I need a third-party there to confirm." Also, something is terribly wrong with me. Maybe I have brain cancer on top of being pregnant because the possibility of spending hours in the car together actually sounds exciting.

Plus, it would be wonderful not to endure the sad looks when I'm alone at my appointment again. I bet we can make a somewhat convincing couple.

See?I'm sick.

"You're definitely at least one of those two things." He flashes me a teasing smile. "Sure you want me there? Because if he's a dickhead, I'll kick the shit out of him."

I swat my hand at him—getting nowhere close because we're sitting on opposite ends of my couch. "And then we'll be banned from the hospital and I won't have anywhere within three hours to deliver a baby."

"I've pulled enough calves, I'm sure we'll manage."

My jaw drops, and I brave the cold, swinging a leg out from under the blanket to kick him hard in the thigh. "Shut the fuck up. You ever say shit like that again, I'll castrate you."

He's laughing. A gut busting, wheezy laugh I've never heard before. As annoyed as I want to be at him, I can't help the smile bursting at the seams.

"Shut up." I nudge him with my toes again. "Serious, Red. No fighting my doctor. You can be pissed off all you want, but we'll vent about it on the drive home like normal people."

"Okay, okay. Stop kicking me with your damn ice cube feet."

"Promise you won't." I point a threatening finger in his direction, narrowing my eyes with a serious intent despite the smile I can't shake.

"Yes, Cass, I promise. Even if he's a tool."

I retreat back under the covers, and Red reaches over to carefully tuck the blanket around my toes. All I can do is stare at him and clasp my hands, gripping hard to stop from launching into his stupid, annoying, cute, sexy lap.

Fuck.

Glancing at the clock above the fireplace, he scrubs a hand across his chiselled jaw. "I should get going. Four a.m. comes sooner than I ever want it to. I'll text you after I talk to Austin."

"Okay. Night." I watch him stand up, refusing to budge from my comfy seat. Partially because I'm a terrible hostess, but mostly because I know I would kiss him if I gave him a proper goodbye.