Page 8 of Sweet Escape (Whispering Oaks Ranch #1)

Well if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions

? I could use a love song - Maren Morris

Olivia

Six Weeks Later

It takes barely half the suggested time for the little blue plus sign to pop up on the test. Pregnant. I’m… pregnant. With child. Knocked up. In the family way. There’s a fucking bun in the oven.

I don’t stop there. The next test is digital, and the screen reads pregnant almost instantly, each subsequent test result matching the first. All together, I have ten pregnancy tests lined up on my small bathroom vanity, and each one is telling me I am decisively, exceedingly, absolutely, unequivocally pregnant.

Way to go, Olivia. You’re a newly single thirty-year-old with no real job, no house, and no baby daddy.

Ok, so that last one isn’t strictly accurate, but I don’ t even have his number, so I’m not sure how I’d find him even if I wanted to. Do I want to?

Wilder made it clear he’s not looking for a relationship, but I owe it to him to give him the option to be involved.

How the hell do I approach the hot cowboy I met on an airplane and tell him we’re having a baby?

Can it even be considered a one-night stand?

Probably not. I’m not really sure what the parameters are for one-night stands, but surely it doesn’t mean multiple orgasms in multiple locations over a twenty-four-hour period. I digress.

A knock sounds at the door, bringing me back to the present. “Livie? You okay? You’ve been gone for a while.”

“I’m fine, Grammy. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Alright. Holler if you need me. There’s a fine ass rancher having lunch down here. Might be able to rope you outta there in a pinch.”

“Grammy!”

Her laughter fades down the stairs, away from the apartment above the diner I’ve been calling home for the last six weeks.

I’m supposed to be in the kitchen making pastries for the display case, but I ran next door to the market when a wave of nausea hit me mid-morning.

When I got back, I rushed up to the apartment with the excuse that I had an urgent need to use the bathroom.

Grammy probably thinks I have explosive diarrhea. It’s worse. So much worse.

I sweep all of the positive tests into the trash before heading back down to the diner, where the lunch rush is well underway. My steps slow as soon as I walk through the swinging doors to the dining room, locking eyes with none other than my baby daddy himself.

Hot rancher, indeed.

For a few heartbeats, I don’t move. It’s like my body is frozen while my mind catches up with what I’m seeing. Are hallucinations a pregnancy symptom? I pinch my arm, wincing at the small bite of pain. Ok, so not a hallucination.

My fingers twist in my pale pink apron as I take a mental tally of anything I might’ve done in recent memory for me to have such shit luck, but nothing comes to mind.

No broken mirrors, no black cats (although I think that one is utter bullshit), and no walking under ladders.

I can’t guarantee I haven’t inadvertently spilled any salt—potential hazards of being a baker—but I think I would’ve course corrected if it had happened.

“Olivia?” That voice.

If I weren’t already pregnant, my name on his lips might’ve done the trick.

He’s sitting at the end of the counter in a pair of Wranglers and a black Henley with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his corded forearms and the hands I grew intimately familiar with all those weeks ago.

His dark eyes feel like they’re seeing all of my secrets, and that’s the last thing I need right now.

“Um. Hi, Wilder. How are you?” I straighten the condiments in a neat row, then fidget with the kids' menus and crayons, avoiding his gaze.

“I’m good. Do you work here?”

“Strictly speaking, no. This is my grandma’s diner. I just keep her display case stocked.”

“You’re Rosie’s granddaughter?”

As if he summoned her by name, Grammy strolls out of the kitchen and places a plate on the counter in front of him. It looks like a BLT with a side of fries—my favorite. “Wilder Hayes, you talkin’ bout me again?” she teases.

Hayes. He’s a Hayes. They’re the wealthiest family in town, and my family's biggest rival. I don't know how I spent a whole day and a half with this man without getting his last name. He’s going to think I baby-trapped him. Holy fuck. This just went from bad to worse .

“Only good things, Ro.” He pops a fry into his mouth.

“I see you’ve met my Livie.” She pulls me in for a side hug.

My stomach roils, and I swallow around the bout of nausea rising to the surface.

Wilder’s mouth tips up at one corner as he gives me a sidelong glance. “I have.” There’s a sensual undertone to the words, and I’m grateful when it seemingly flies right over Grammy’s head.

“If you need anything else, you know where to find me.” She waltzes back the way she came.

“It’s good to see you, Cupcake. Join me?” He gestures to the stool on his right.

My heart is beating out of my chest as indecision wars inside me. Things just reached a whole new level of fucked up.“I really have to get back to work. I kind of took the morning off, and the cupcakes won't bake themselves.”

And I have to replace the money I spent on ten pregnancy tests—not one of my finest ideas.

I give a half-hearted laugh, jutting a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the kitchen. “It was good to see you again.”

I don’t wait for him to respond, making a hasty escape without a second glance. What the fuck am I going to do now?

Wilder

She retreats into the kitchen as fast as her legs will carry her. Memories of the time we spent together come flooding back to the point where I find myself growing hard beneath the table. She’s even more gorgeous than I remember. Fuck me.

Even after a trip back to Colorado to retrieve Emmy and settle in at the ranch, I haven't been able to get her off my mind. The sweet-smelling woman with the honeyed voice and eyes that sparkle like the rarest diamonds has been creeping into my thoughts more than I care to admit.

I never imagined I’d be seeing her in Oak Ridge. Then again, we didn’t exactly stop to have many heart-to-heart conversations about our lives, and I wrongly assumed she wouldn’t be able to point out my hometown on a map, let alone live here.

Rosie smirks as she clears my plate. When she’s done, she slides a recipe card across the empty countertop and winks. “Just in case you wanted that cupcake recipe.”

On one side, there's Rosie’s diner logo. When I flip it over, there’s a doodle of a cupcake with a phone number written in a delicate scrawl.

“Don’t fuck it up,”Rosie says.

Her warning stays with me on the drive back to the ranch, and I wonder if I should bother reaching out.

My life is being held together by little more than adhesive tape, and I’m a gust of wind away from a full collapse.

Emmy is the only reason I’m not locked away in a padded room.

Olivia is a distraction I can’t afford, even if I’m tempted to get another taste.

When I pull through the massive gate onto the dirt road that leads to the big barn at Whispering Oaks Ranch, I spot Dad off in one of the pastures. He’s sitting atop Copper, his chestnut quarter horse, and holding my sister’s palomino mare, Buttercup, by the reins as he tows her toward the barn.

I park in my usual spot off to the side of the big house, and my little Emmy Lou comes toddling around the corner like a bat out of hell with Mama hot on her heels.

Emmy is covered head to toe in mud, her uneven pigtails bobbing against her head, and I can’t help but smile at the sight.

Stepping out of my truck, I glance up at the clear blue sky.

She’s happy here, Jess.

“Daddy!”

“Hi, Angel. Are you being good for Gigi? ”

“Uh-huh,” she says, her sapphire eyes sparkling as she gives an enthusiastic nod.

When Mama reaches us, she plants her hands, protected by dirt-covered gardening gloves, on her hips. “This little stinker decided she wanted to upend my watering can when I wasn't looking, and before I could stop her, she was jumping in the puddle.”

“Emmy Lou, did you make a mess of Gigi’s garden?” I ask.

My girl sticks out her bottom lip and glances up at me through her thick lashes.

“Daddy’s not mad, Angel. But you can’t make muddy puddles in the greenhouse, okay?”

“Ok,” she says, swapping out her letters so the k sounds more like a t.

“Come on. We better get you cleaned up.” I lift her into my arms, not caring about the mud that’s now smeared all over my clothes.

Not a day goes by that I’m not covered in some kind of substance, be it mud or something equally egregious.

She captures my face between her tiny palms, planting a messy kiss on my cheek, and all my worries dissipate.

I don’t need anything else in my life if I have Emmy Lou.

After a quick hose down, I wrap Emmy in a spare towel from the tack room and carry her back to the house.

She’s rubbing at her eyes and lets free a yawn as we step inside.

I quickly get her changed into a fresh pull-up and her favorite footie pajamas with the pink bows all over them. “Time for a nap.”

“Why don’t you let me put her down in the spare room?” Mama suggests. “There’s no use taking her all the way back home when y’all are coming back for family dinner anyway.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back to check on her later.”

“She’ll be fine. We’ll see you back here for dinner.”

I give my mama a kiss on the cheek and head out. The storm door slams against the frame as I bound down the porch steps and get into my truck, turning down the familiar path toward the modest house Emmy and I are fortunate enough to call home.

When I finally agreed to move back, my parents had their first house cleaned out and ready for me and Emmy to move into. It’s not far from the big house on a parcel of land they had transferred into my name, but they give us our privacy, and they’ve been a huge help with Emmy these last six weeks.