36. I’m Third
I’M THIRD
EMBERLEIGH
What time is it? Where am I?
Am I drooling? Seriously, am I drooling? And what’s on my shoulder?
Also, this pillow sucks.
I open my eyes, trying to get my bearings. That’s not a pillow; that’s a denim-covered thigh. Shit. I fell asleep and apparently ended up on Braxton’s leg.
I slide away from the sweet dreams and the warm cocoon I wish I didn’t have to leave, and a large palm slides off me and falls onto the sofa.
Braxton sleeps, mouth open, dirty tee stretched across his broad, muscled chest. Scruff covers his jaw.
I giggle when I realize that Colt mimics him on his chest, his little mouth popped open and his arms open instead of curled into himself.
I slide my phone out of my back pocket. I snap a pic or two… or five. It’s become a habit. My camera roll is quickly filling up with snaps of Colt and even, occasionally, Colt and Braxton when he doesn’t know I’m watching.
I want them for Colt. I want them for myself. At some point, God forbid, if I’m left with only my memories, I want as many as exist. I want clear ones, blurry ones, moving ones. I want videos and temper tantrums and giggles.
I make for the shower and get under the hot stream of water. The water is too hot for midday in Texas in August, but I do my best thinking in the shower. And my mind is overwhelmed.
What if all I’m left with are memories? My father is still moving forward with his suit. And, while I understood it after Em’s death, the clarity of his decision seems fuzzier right now. I know he wants Colt. Wants to have Emerson’s son and not lose him to strangers unknown, with no input.
But he shouldn’t want input. He wouldn’t have had it with Em.
He thinks he would’ve, but I know better.
She’d have moved to have more autonomy for herself and for Colt.
Hell, she had the foresight, if I’m thinking correctly, to name him Ranger.
I wonder if somewhere deep down she knew.
I will never know, but I’d be amazed and pissed if she had any inkling and never said a thing to me. Dammit, Em!
So the next question is, if Colt is better off with Braxton than my parents, what’s next? I’m not ruling out raising him. I’d kill for the job and I’m not exaggerating, but legally I have less pull than my parents. So I’m third.
My heart’s out there, and I’m third.
Which means one thing—fight for what’s best—not for myself, but for Colt. Choose, with every decision, what would benefit him most, what would provide him the most love, what would give him the best opportunity for a wonderful life.
That decision is easy.
It’s a simple one.
The ranch, this family, those horses, that wide open land.
If I have to choose between my parents and the Ranger family, it’s a no-brainer.
Without any legal claim, that determination is made.
So where does that leave me?
And that’s the burning question—where am I in Colt’s life?
We’ll have to see, but, regardless, I’m here. For as long as they’ll have me, I’m here.
With wet hair and no makeup, in a tank and running shorts for the heat outside, I pad into the kitchen after seeing the boys are still asleep. I make a fresh pot of coffee and rummage through the fridge for lunch fixings.
Colt needs to get back on schedule, if we can make that happen, and surely Braxton will wake up hungry.
I’m not terribly domestic.
I’d expected a husband and kids someday, but that “someday” to be far down the line. I planned to launch my business, make it the premier PR firm in Highland Park, and eventually hire out some tasks to junior partners. Being Betty Crocker is certainly outside my wheelhouse.
I never wanted to be a lady who lunched or who had a tennis club or a standing manicure appointment like my mother. Not that the lifestyle isn’t convenient, but I would be bored out of my mind and can’t handle that. Besides, I’m damn good at what I do and I love doing it.
So this—making lunch and all—is not my forte. I’d hoped to hire someone for this when I was dreaming of what my life would be like. But for now, and for Colt, I’ll do anything to have the time.
The business will be fine. I can still make it an empire; I’ll just do it from a spare bedroom in the Hill Country instead of Highland Park.
I slice strawberries, throw together pasta salad from leftovers in the refrigerator, and grab sandwich fixings. I need to google a recipe or two. I can’t live on sandwiches much longer and that hiring a personal chef thing is a bit further off than I’d like.
I put together a bottle and only just manage not to scream when I turn around and see Braxton leaning on the doorway. A very sleepy Braxton. A Braxton that shows a hint of the child he once was with his hard edges kept at bay.
“Why do you keep sneaking up on me?” The question comes out sharper than I want it to.
“Why do you have such horrible hearing that you don’t know people are in the same room?” He shoves off the doorjamb and drops Colt into his high chair, grabbing the plates off the counter and placing them on the table.
“My hearing is fine.”
“And yet twice in a couple of days, you’ve been angry with me for being in this room without forewarning you.” The dimple that appears in the corner of his mouth tells me he’s not mad at me yelling when he’s just woken up.
I lift my chin, never ceding an inch. “I’m not angry.”
“Chill, Em, I’m just giving you shit.” A grin breaks across his face, but I’m glued to the spot. Em. Em!
“Whoa! Where’d you go?” The concern in his voice is obvious. But my world has gone gray, and I can’t focus anywhere.
“Emberleigh?”
“Huh?”
“You okay? What happened?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. I zoned out, apparently.”
“That happen a lot?”
“What’s that?”
“The zoning out.”
“No,” I offer, joining him at the table.
“Is it—Never mind. Not my place.”
We eat our meal in silence. What little conversation we have revolves around Colt. Rather, it is with Colt and not each other.
It’s perfunctory. Not to the point of discussing the weather, but the ease we had earlier is gone.
He leaves for work and I keep Colt for the afternoon. While he sleeps, I order a few pieces online and cram in as much for my business as I can.
Braxton
Napping in the middle of the day isn’t a thing for me.
I don’t do it. Not counting Colt’s first week here or today, I can’t remember a time that I have, aside from a bout of the flu or something.
I just don’t have time. Ranching is day in, day out and the daily duties mean rain or shine, I’m up and working regardless of how tired I am.
Make no mistake, I’m often tired.
Now I’m wired. New healthy foal, watching my son see his new life, knowing it will be his to grow with. The nap may contribute to my recent charge of energy too. But there’s nothing like a successful day and being surrounded by family.
Marron and Windrunner are doing well. I love the name. But I hope it isn’t shortened to Windy. Not that it isn’t a good name, but Windy and Wandy make for crazy pairings.
I work well into the evening. Not because I don’t miss Colt.
I do. He’s been with me mere weeks, and I can’t get enough of him.
I’d be lying to say I’m not excited about the growing up part though.
Teaching him to ride a bike. And a horse.
Watching him come into his own preferences.
Hearing what he thinks about. Not that I need his teenage attitude and pregnancy scares.
I don’t have to be reminded about that part for sure.
I’m living it, but can’t say I regret it at all.
But just to know who he is. He coos and gums his words now, but it’s not really vocabulary. He certainly does what he can to communicate.
I head home, missing my boy and wondering what happened with Emberleigh earlier. Everything was good and then she was aloof, not in a hostile way, but almost as if she went into her mind and never quite got unstuck from there.
I walk in the house, warm light greeting me, to see Em asleep on the sofa with Colt. I think it’s early until I see the clock on the wall. Our long days mean I burned too much daylight, and it’s after nine. Still, she’s not usually asleep this early, even if Colt is.
I pick him up, cradle him into my chest, and breathe him in.
I don’t care if that makes me cheesy. He smells like new beginnings and exciting journeys, and I can’t get enough.
I put him down in his crib. It’s in my room.
Emberleigh moved in and the weight room became a storage room, and his crib landed where it now sits.
Eventually I’ll need to clear out the third bedroom or I can set him up in her room when she leaves.
Why does that thought pinch my already-tight chest?
I head back into the kitchen and find a plate in the microwave. My chest does that pinching again, only this time it’s not in pain.
Before I start the microwave, I do what I never expected I would. I return to the sofa and scoop up Emberleigh and carry her to her room. She weighs next to nothing and murmurs something in her sleep right before she nuzzles into my chest.
I set her on the bed and, as I’m almost to the door, I hear, “Don’t go.”
I turn and begin to speak, but realize she’s dreaming, “Don’t leave me.”
“Em?”
Her eyes fly open and they register horror.
After a second, her temper flares. “What are you doing in here?”
“I—”
“I mean, this is my bedroom. You could show some court—”
I put a finger over her mouth.
“I’m in a good mood after a damn good day. Don’t mess it up by getting ugly.”
“I—” she begins around my finger.
“You.” I pause for dramatic effect, before removing my finger from her soft skin and full lips. “Were asleep on the sofa, and I brought you in here so you wouldn’t be woken up by the microwave or left to sleep on the sofa all night.”
She has the good sense to look sheepish. She inhales a ragged breath, but doesn’t get a word out as I go on.
“And as I was walking away, you began talking in your sleep. I didn’t know that so I came back to check on you. Now, I’m going to go have dinner. Thank you, by the way, for leaving that for me. Sweet dreams, Emberleigh.”
I pivot on my boot and see myself out, pulling the door closed behind me.
Dinner is delicious as is my shower following. My home, my life, everything has flipped upside down in the last few weeks. But the joy I have and the pleasure I get are worth the chaos.
When I lie in bed, I stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow morning will come early and I need to get some rest. I slip a hand behind my head and listen to Colt’s small, deep breaths. The peace of that sound lulls me to the brink of sleep.
And I’d be there, too, if I weren’t hearing something else. Something less wholesome and wholly more erotic. I swear, I mean it, I swear I hear the breathy moans of Emberleigh from across the hall.
She’s making every effort to be quiet, but there’s a keening in her voice, a sound of pleasure so specific, that it cannot be ignored.
And I give in.
I slip my hand under the band of my sleep shorts and fist my cock.
My hot shaft pulses in my hand, throbbing as I stroke and tug, rolling my palm over the head, sending a jolt of electricity up my spine.
When I hear what I assume is Emberleigh’s orgasm, I close my eyes, and picture her face.
I imagine her mouth open in ecstasy, her eyes shut riding out that wave, her lower half undulating under my caress, her taking me deep inside. I pump—and not gently—until I come.
I clean up and fall back into bed and into sound, dreamless, blissful sleep.