Page 47 of Ride or Die

Reaching out, I tentatively cup her soft cheek with my hand, wiping away a stray tear with the pad of my thumb. “You’re a fierce, protective mama, doin’ all she can to keep her babies safe. But sometimes, Clara, people need help.”

She closes her eyes on a trembling sigh.

“And sometimes, even though it pains us to,” I continue, “sometimes we just gotta suck up our pride and accept it.”

Clara opens her eyes and I see the moment it sinks in.

“It don’t mean we’re pathetic, or weak, or fuckin’ useless.” I shake my head. “It just means we have people who actually give a shit enough to wanna help us. It’s when you ain’t got no one around to help that you need to worry.”

“You’re a nice guy, Cole,” Clara says after a pause, smiling at me despite her tears.

“Well, hell, I know that,” I say with a smug smirk. “Just don’t go tellin’ no one. ’Cause, you see, I got a reputation as a broody, cocky asshole to uphold.”

Clara laughs and it’s music to my ears.

“You alright?” I ask after a beat, searching her eyes.

She nods and I feel something pass between us, and it’s suddenly just the two of us, and hell, our lips are really fuckin’ close.

Before I can do something stupid like lean in and kiss her because, let’s face it, neither of us needs that right now, Clara turns away, sighing heavily, dragging her hands down her face. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” she utters, groaning.

I snap myself out of whatever daze I’m in, shaking my head to myself. Forcing my eyes from her, I choose instead to look out over the yard. “’Bout what?”

“Well, clearly I can’t trust a fucking high schooler to look after my kids.” She scoffs. “But I need to work…” She throws her head back on another frustrated sigh.

“Actually,” I begin, scrubbing a hand over my jaw, “I think I might know someone who can help…”

Clara snaps her head my way, and I see the fear flash in her eyes. “Cole, I?—”

“Leave it to me,” I say, interrupting her objection, and with another slightly smug grin, I nudge her with my shoulder. “Remember what I said. Accept the help, darlin’.”

She rolls her eyes, hugging her knees, but I catch the hint of a smile lift her lips.

“So…” Wyatt begins, and the way he drags out the word combined with the tone in his voice, I’m immediately on edge. “You gonna tell us what the fuck last night was about?”

I look up from my eggs, finding six curious sets of eyes laser-focused on me from around the breakfast table.

“Yeah, Cole.” Brady bounces eagerly in his chair, grinning like a stupid motherfucker. “Who is she?”

I shake my head, ready to stick my fork in my own eye just to get out of this situation. “None of your damn business.”

“She’s pretty, Cole,” Webber gruffs from his place at the head of the table.

I don’t respond, shoveling eggs into my mouth like I ain’t eaten for a week.

Fuck yeah, she’s pretty. Clara’s a goddamn smoke show. And I swear to god, the way my gut knots at the thought of any of these assholes, or any other fucker looking at her the wrong fuckin’ way, I think I might be in trouble.

When I clock the time, I wipe my mouth with my napkin and push up from the table, carrying my plate to the kitchen and loading it in the dishwasher.

“Later,” I say over my shoulders to the fellas, fully aware of their eyes on me as I grab my hat from its hook and walk out of the bunkhouse without so much as a second glance back at them.

Normally, after morning chores on a Saturday, I take off, head home or go to the gym, but this morning I get in my truck and head on up to the main house to sort out some business.

The main house is where Mama Joy lives when she’s not in New York visiting Dallas and his family, or Dallas’ sister, Millie and her fiancé, Logan, another professional hockey player and Dallas’ teammate.

When Phil died, Mama Joy handed everything over to Austin. She didn’t want no part of the ranch. I think sometimes she blames the stress of this place for the heart attack that killed her husband. But she still stays because, well, ain’t no place like home, or some shit, I guess.

“Mama Joy?” I call out as I step up onto the wraparound balcony, waiting by the screen door that opens into the kitchen. Mama Joy always tells us to help ourselves and come and go as we please, but I’ve never been able to, not even when I lived here as a teenager.