Read Online Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs) by Carolyn Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolyn Brown
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in her mouth. If she ever figured out what sorry bastard drugged her beer, she fully well intended to repay the favor. Only he wouldn’t wake up fully dressed in a bed with a Chihuahua licking his face. He’d wake up staked out spread eagle and naked on a fire ant bed. If he wanted a hot bed, then by damn she’d give him one.
She slung her legs over the side of the bed. The room did a couple of fast spins before it slowed down.
“Need some help there?”
“No, I can do it,” she declared. She set the coffee on the end table and held on to the wall. Her legs were rubbery at first but they finally supported her and she took a couple of feeble steps toward the table.
Trace slung his legs over the bed toward the other side and followed her. Knowing he was back there to catch her if she fell gave her confidence and determination to make it to the table without help. She slid into the booth and sighed.
“This is miserable,” she said.
“Think you can drive? We could stay right here until tomorrow,” Trace said.
We could stay here? she thought. Where did that “we” business come from?
“This coffee and aspirin are helping. Once I eat something I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Your eyes still look dazed,” he said.
“It’s a crazy feeling not knowing what in the devil happened. I keep trying to remember something past the dance and I can’t,” she said.
He put a plate in front of her with three fried eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast on the side and refilled her coffee cup before he carried a second plate to the table and joined her.
She picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it. It was crispy enough to crackle when she bit a piece off and it had been smoked to just the right flavor.
“I love breakfast food,” she said.
“Me too. Good breakfast starts the day out right. Good supper ends it. Dinner can be a quick sandwich or leftovers from the night before,” he said.
She cut up the eggs. “Just right. Over easy, whites done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned. “That proves it, Gemma. You were drugged for sure. If you had a hangover, you damn sure wouldn’t be eating greasy fried eggs.”
She looked across the table at Trace but didn’t nod in agreement. Moving her head still hurt. “You got that right. First time I ever got drunk enough to have a hangover, I didn’t even want to eat a piece of dry toast.”
Trace smiled again. He had a killer smile and dreamy eyes, and words could not begin to describe his body or his slow Texas drawl. He could ride a bronc and talk about horses, ranching, and rodeos, and could cook too. Why in the hell wasn’t he married?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He glanced toward the clock on the microwave and her gaze followed his. It was seven thirty. If they were on the road at eight, they’d pull into the campground at five that afternoon. That should give her plenty of time to cook the traditional holiday supper before the fireworks show started at dark.
“I’ll follow you today,” he said. “And I need your cell phone number so we can keep in touch about stopping for food and potty breaks.”
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”
He chuckled.
She gave him the meanest look she could conjure up with a headache.
He raised both palms. “Hey, you want to go it on your own just say the word, darlin’. I’m just offering since you’re not runnin’ on all eight cylinders today.”
“It’s getting better,” she grumbled. “But I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll even make supper to pay you back for protection and breakfast.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”
She met his gaze without blinking. “You think I can’t?”
“You want a fight? I can deliver it.” He growled but his eyes were teasing instead of angry.
“No, I’m too messed up to fight. You’d win and then I’d hate myself. Yes, I cook,” she answered between bites.
“What are you planning?”
“It’s the Fourth of
She slung her legs over the side of the bed. The room did a couple of fast spins before it slowed down.
“Need some help there?”
“No, I can do it,” she declared. She set the coffee on the end table and held on to the wall. Her legs were rubbery at first but they finally supported her and she took a couple of feeble steps toward the table.
Trace slung his legs over the bed toward the other side and followed her. Knowing he was back there to catch her if she fell gave her confidence and determination to make it to the table without help. She slid into the booth and sighed.
“This is miserable,” she said.
“Think you can drive? We could stay right here until tomorrow,” Trace said.
We could stay here? she thought. Where did that “we” business come from?
“This coffee and aspirin are helping. Once I eat something I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Your eyes still look dazed,” he said.
“It’s a crazy feeling not knowing what in the devil happened. I keep trying to remember something past the dance and I can’t,” she said.
He put a plate in front of her with three fried eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast on the side and refilled her coffee cup before he carried a second plate to the table and joined her.
She picked up a piece of bacon with her fingers and ate it. It was crispy enough to crackle when she bit a piece off and it had been smoked to just the right flavor.
“I love breakfast food,” she said.
“Me too. Good breakfast starts the day out right. Good supper ends it. Dinner can be a quick sandwich or leftovers from the night before,” he said.
She cut up the eggs. “Just right. Over easy, whites done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned. “That proves it, Gemma. You were drugged for sure. If you had a hangover, you damn sure wouldn’t be eating greasy fried eggs.”
She looked across the table at Trace but didn’t nod in agreement. Moving her head still hurt. “You got that right. First time I ever got drunk enough to have a hangover, I didn’t even want to eat a piece of dry toast.”
Trace smiled again. He had a killer smile and dreamy eyes, and words could not begin to describe his body or his slow Texas drawl. He could ride a bronc and talk about horses, ranching, and rodeos, and could cook too. Why in the hell wasn’t he married?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He glanced toward the clock on the microwave and her gaze followed his. It was seven thirty. If they were on the road at eight, they’d pull into the campground at five that afternoon. That should give her plenty of time to cook the traditional holiday supper before the fireworks show started at dark.
“I’ll follow you today,” he said. “And I need your cell phone number so we can keep in touch about stopping for food and potty breaks.”
“You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”
He chuckled.
She gave him the meanest look she could conjure up with a headache.
He raised both palms. “Hey, you want to go it on your own just say the word, darlin’. I’m just offering since you’re not runnin’ on all eight cylinders today.”
“It’s getting better,” she grumbled. “But I’ll take you up on the offer. And I’ll even make supper to pay you back for protection and breakfast.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”
She met his gaze without blinking. “You think I can’t?”
“You want a fight? I can deliver it.” He growled but his eyes were teasing instead of angry.
“No, I’m too messed up to fight. You’d win and then I’d hate myself. Yes, I cook,” she answered between bites.
“What are you planning?”
“It’s the Fourth of
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