She nodded stiffly in lieu of a reply.
“You’ll let me know,” he added, his words hanging with implication, his gaze sharp on her. You’ll let me know if I messed up your life and knocked you up.
“Of course,” Briar said quickly. Too quickly. And he knew she was lying. She wouldn’t let him know. The good, responsible, respectable girl in her wasn’t going to reach out to a felon she had a one--night stand with for anything. For her, this was where it would end. If the possibility of fatherhood wasn’t hanging over him, he could let her do that. But she would be hearing from him again.
Fatherhood.
A bolt of panic shot down his spine. Knox never thought he would be a father. Never wanted to be. It was enough for him to take care of Uncle Mac, run Roscoe’s, and convince his parole officer that he was walking the straight and narrow. Eventually, North would get out and together they would take care of Uncle Mac and Roscoe’s. The bar had been in his family for over seventy years. It was their legacy. Roscoe’s had been standing when Sweet Hill was nothing but tumbleweeds. For now it was on him to make sure it kept standing. Fatherhood wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him.
North wasn’t like him. He still smiled. Still found things to laugh at—-even in prison. North could be a father someday. Married with a -couple of kids. Not him. He had ruined enough lives. He wouldn’t ruin some innocent kid’s life, too. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ruin Briar Davis.
If it wasn’t already too late for that. That fate might already be decided. In that case, he would make the best of it. It was the only thing he could do.
“Briar . . .” He hesitated, hating to make any demands on her. Knowing he didn’t have that right, but she had to understand. She had to believe she wasn’t alone in this. “I want to know.”
“Okay. Fine.” An edge entered her tone. “I’ll let you know.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened it to his contacts. “What’s your number?”
She paused for a moment, and he arched an eyebrow, waiting until she rattled off her number. He punched it in, saving her to his contacts and then sliding his phone into his back jeans pocket. “I’ll text you so you have my number.”
“Okay.” Another one word reply. He didn’t like it. Her cold acceptance. He wanted her to talk. To say something. To not sit bundled under her covers looking so wounded. But then he would have to be someone else. A guy that would spend the night with her. Take her to breakfast. To church. To dinner at his parents’. Not him.
“All right.” He moved to the door, feeling like a grade A bastard. He hovered in the threshold of her room. Nothing about this was right. Leaving. Staying. “You’ll be hearing from me.”
Turning, he walked out of her apartment. And tried to forget the sight of her sitting alone in that bed.
FIFTEEN
THURSDAY NIGHTS WEREN’T the busiest at Roscoe’s but they still saw a hefty crowd. Bud was closing up tonight, so Knox left just shy of midnight. The crowd had already started to thin by then. Some -people actually had to get up early for work. Aunt Alice had off tonight and she promised to take dinner to Uncle Mac. Knowing her, she had probably stocked the fridge with fresh groceries, too. At least the old man had a good meal tonight. Knox would get up early and make him some eggs and bacon before he took his run.
He rarely missed a morning run. After eight years locked up he couldn’t get enough of jogging in the wide--open spaces and dragging all that clean fresh air into his lungs. He wasn’t in a ten--by--eight cell. He wasn’t in the yard either. He didn’t have to worry about where he could and could not go. There was none of the constant tension. Just freedom.
The back parking lot was empty as he made his way to his pickup. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, checking for messages. He didn’t have many contacts. Only a few -people even bothered to text him. His aunt and uncle. -Couple of guys from work so they could verify work schedules. His cousin Becky texted him occasionally.
But he wasn’t checking for them. He was checking to see if Briar had texted. He knew it was probably too soon for her to know one way or another if she was pregnant, but it had been almost a week since he saw her, and he couldn’t get her out of his head. He told himself it was because he’d screwed up and neglected to use a condom, but he knew that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the only reason. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How she felt against him. How she tasted. One night together hadn’t purged her from his system. It only made him want her again.