Page 14 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

“We’re going to have a baby.” Her voice is timid at first, like she’s only said that sentence out loud a handful of times and she’s still not sure how to feel about it.

But then she see’s Gus’s giant grin, his face nearly glowing—a weird contrast to his normal shadows—and she relaxes, beaming back at him.

I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life. And sad at the same time.

“Oh my gosh! Congratulations! It’s going to be the cutest baby alive!

” Faith’s up and running over to them, arms open before I have a second to set my glass down.

As I do, I stupidly peek a glance at Mateo, who instead of beaming at the couple we both care deeply for, is staring right at me, questions filling his eyes.

I shake my head once, and he blinks in understanding. In the next beat we’re both up, and rushing Stetson and Gus who’re already under a smothering hug from Faith, unaware of the two other bodies fighting to climb on top next.

It’s silly and immature and, as the kids say— cringy —but nothing has ever felt so right. I love these two weirdos like my family, maybe even more, because I chose them, and they chose me.

All four of them.

And the recognition of that breaks my heart in two, while stitching it back together at the same time.

“You freak, Gus! Couldn’t help but mark her permanently huh?

” I giggle the words, my face smushed into Faith’s hair, my arms wrapped around Stetson and Gus’s necks, pulling them even closer together.

Mateo, although a little stiff, chuckles behind me, and leans in for a quick group hug before righting himself, using my back as leverage to push himself up.

Except his hand continues to rest on my lower back even once he’s up.

And now it draws a single, small circle on the bare strip of my skin between my jeans and shirt. I close my eyes, squeezing tighter, hoping against hope that if I don’t get up, he won’t stop.

“Get off, you fucking dickheads,” Gus growls, his face still squished and the words a little garbled. “You might hurt the baby.”

Faith and I jump back, her head knocking into my nose with a sharp crack. I pause, slightly dazed, the pain white hot but fading quickly.

“Shit, Dale are you okay? See what you did, Gus? I’m not fragile, just because I’m pregnant.” Stetson’s warm hands run up my arms, and cup the sides of my face. I shake my head, smiling away the pain.

If I ignore it, it’ll go away. That’s what always works with all the other painful things in my life, why would I give up on old faithful now?

“I’m good, how’s your head, Faith?”

“Oh, I’m fine! Barely felt it, I’m just sorry that I hurt you.” I hug her, hoping to eliminate the insecure note in her voice. She melts against me, and I know all is well again.

“Whiskey?” Mateo’s chimes from the kitchen, his voice thick with emotion he’s trying, and failing, to consume. Seeing this side of him is new, and although I want to hate it because it only confuses me more, I can’t help but find it wildly attractive.

Mateo always had a good family—supportive, hardworking, a mom, dad, and sister—more than most of us in this room really.

But I know when we were younger he used to tell me about how no matter how hard he tries he just doesn’t fit in with them.

He didn’t care about the money or the image, or the opportunities presented to him because of his last name.

All he wanted was a good horse, and cows to work, and I realize I haven’t asked him in all the time we’ve spent together how he feels about taking over his family's empire.

Does he still feel the same way he used to or has that changed? Like the boyish look he traded for the tattooed, suave one he now sports.

What man lies beneath the mask?

Because this sweet one, uncomfortable showing emotion, but having it all the same for friends celebrating their happy life, is the boy I remember. Hidden beneath the man.

Reserved but deep as the ocean.

And if that’s not as confusing as fuck, I don’t know what is.

“I’ll take a small one. Dale? Faith?” Gus looks at us expectantly, and I glance down at my surprisingly nearly empty cup once more.

From the various guarded looks I always get, I know my friends think I have a problem with alcohol.

Which, I suppose, on some level, is what friends are for—to have your back and protect you.

Even from yourself. But I don’t struggle with alcohol—I could quit anytime. Hell, I’ve gone off and on for years.

Alcohol helps numb me, and when the emotions are so potent—so violent—like they’ve been for months now, I need a little numbing.

“Oh fuck, why not? I hate getting drunk but it’s a special occasion.

” Swiping my glass from the table, I down the few droplets left and stride confidently to where Mateo stands, bottle extended.

Faith and Stetson snort in unison behind me, and I just roll my eyes.

“Don’t get me drunk and take advantage of me,” I whisper conspiratorially to him.

That was the whiskey talking …yeah, keep telling yourself that.

His lips tip, a smirk pulling at the corners and heat pools in my belly. Also the whiskey. And then he fills my glass once more, not as full as before, but more than I have any business drinking. I’ll drink it, don’t get me wrong, but I know I shouldn’t.

Maybe then I’ll be able to ignore the growing need to be close to Mateo—feel his heat, smell his cologne. If I’m numb, I won’t feel the way my heart pounds in my throat when I’m around him.

He leans in, acting like he’s trying not to spill, and then whispers, the sound barely reaching my own ears. “I make no promises, cowgirl. I have a kiss to redeem.”