Page 26 of Oops I Fell For The Cowboy Next Door

My hands are trembling. Not from cold. The bathroom has heated floors because Tate installed them last month when I mentioned my feet get cold in the mornings. This man. This impossible, stubborn, fix-everything-before-dawn man.

Two lines. Positive. Pregnant.

The math works out to about six weeks. Which means the night of the harvest festival at Maggie's, when Tate pulled me behind the diner and kissed me against the brick wall, then drove us home in his truck with his hand on my thigh the whole way, then carried me upstairs and took his time until I forgot my own name.

That night.

I set the test on the counter. Stand up. Look at myself in the mirror. Same auburn hair, same freckles, same blue eyes. Piper Rawlins. Still getting used to the name. Still getting used to the face of a woman who has everything she never knew she wanted.

The bedroom is dark. Tate is asleep on his stomach, one arm stretched across my side of the bed, reaching for me even unconscious. He's shirtless, the sheet pooled at his waist, the scar on his ribs visible in the thin predawn light. His face is softer when he sleeps. Younger. The scowl disappears, and what's left is a man who's finally stopped bracing for impact.

I climb back into bed. Curl against his side. His arm tightens around me immediately, pulling me closer.

"Cold?" His voice is rough with sleep. Barely awake.

"No." My hand rests on his chest. His heartbeat steady under my palm. "Tate."

"Mm."

"I need to tell you something."

He opens one eye. Reads my face. Both eyes open. He shifts onto his side, fully awake in two seconds, because this man has spent his whole life reading weather and he knows when a storm is coming.

But this isn't a storm.

"I'm pregnant."

The silence lasts three heartbeats. His eyes drop to my stomach. Back to my face. His hand moves from my waist to my belly, spreading flat, covering the space where something the size of a blueberry is growing.

"Say it again."

"I'm pregnant. About six weeks. I just took the test."

His jaw works. His throat moves on a swallow. Those hazel eyes, the ones that were cold when we met and warm when he let me in, are bright. Wet. He blinks once. A tear rolls down his cheek into the pillow.

"Tate." My hand finds his face. Thumb against his cheekbone. "Are you okay?"

"I'm..." He stops. Closes his eyes. Opens them. "I've been alone on this land for twelve years. I ate dinner standing at the counter because sitting at the table for one was too quiet. I stopped leaving the porch light on because nobody was coming home. And now you're lying in my bed telling me we're having a baby."

His voice cracks on the last word. He presses his forehead to mine. Both hands on my stomach now. Gentle. Protective. Already claiming something he can't even feel yet.

"I love you," he says against my mouth. "I love you so much I can't breathe."

"I love you too."

He kisses me. Slow at first, reverent, his lips tracing mine with the patience of a man who has nowhere else to be. Then deeper. His tongue sliding against mine. His hand sliding from my belly to my hip, gripping, pulling me flush against him.

"Tate." Breathless. "It's five in the morning."

"Cattle can wait."

Second time in his life he's said that. Both times because of me.

He rolls me onto my back. Settles between my thighs. His mouth moves down my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts through my tank top. He pushes the fabric up, exposing my stomach, and presses his lips to the flat skin below my navel. Holds there. Breathing against me.

"Hi," he whispers to my belly. "I'm your dad. I'm gonna build you everything."

My eyes burn. My fingers rake through his hair.