He hadn’t had emotions tangled around him after sex since high school.

Since Trisha and all that rush of hormones he’d thought was love.

And it certainly hadn’t felt this complicated to be with someone since that day he’d found out she might be pregnant.

Why Jamie’s tears made him feel quite that off balance, he didn’t know.

“Do you want to—” he winced “—talk about it...?”

“No!” The word was broken, desperate.

He shook his head and rolled out of bed, heading to the bathroom and disposing of the condom before coming back into the room.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” he asked.

She shook her head resolutely. Stubborn as ever, even with a fat tear gleaming on her cheek.

And Gabe decided he was going to ignore her.

He hunted around and looked for his boxers, heading out into the kitchen and fishing around for a mug. He heated some milk up on the stovetop. Then took a package of wheat bread out of the cupboard and untwisted the top, taking out a piece and putting it in the toaster. When the milk warmed, he poured it into a mug and added a hot chocolate packet.

Right as he finished stirring, the toast popped up. Gabe slathered it with a generous amount of butter that had come straight from Laughing Irish ranch in Copper Ridge, right next door.

It was the kind of thing his mom had always made him when he didn’t feel well, and for some reason, he thought crying after sex might fall under the header of not feeling well.

He walked back into the room and saw Jamie, out of bed, pulling her sports bra over her head, her white cotton panties already in place.

She froze.

Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes watery, miserable.

“Get back in bed,” he said, gesturing toward the mattress.

“I should go,” she said firmly.

“You are not leaving while you’re crying. Get in bed, have some hot chocolate and toast.” He set both items down on the nightstand and made a more insistent gesture.

“You can’t...force-feed me snacks.”

“I can. And I will.”

He didn’t suppose pointing authoritatively at the bed was forcing her to have snacks at all, but he decided not to comment either way.

“Take those panties off,” he added.

She frowned, and did no such thing, getting back under the covers and pulling them up midwaist, tucking them resolutely around her hips.

“Are we going to have a talk or what?”

Jamie bent her knees beneath the covers, the blanket tenting over her lap. She picked up the toast and bit into it fiercely, her expression sullen.

“So you’re going to be difficult today?” he asked.

“I’m difficult every day,” she said grumpily.

“Jamie, I asked you if you were sure. You’re not acting like a woman who was sure at all. And I need to know... You wanted this. You came to me.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding scratchy. “It’s not like I knew I was going to cry. I would rather put tacks on my saddle for a barrel racing run than cry in front of anyone. I don’t cry.”