Cash Holloway POV:

This mornin' had already gone sideways.

I'd rolled outta bed after spendin' the night, and a fair chunk of the mornin', tangled up in the sheets with a buckle bunny whose name I'd barely caught between all the laughin' and very fun decisions. Pregnancy wasn't somethin' I'd ever worried about. Years back, I'd frozen my sperm before gettin' a vasectomy.

After sending the woman home safely in an Uber, I followed the smell of breakfast.

This place had always been home, and my mom built every inch of it to ensure it was home.

Seraphina Holloway, aka Mom, wasn't just a respected figure in our little hometown called Spirit County. Folks knew her name all over the world.

Even after retirin', she still stood at that kitchen window watchin' every horse out there as though she could spot a problem from half a mile away.

But now the years in the saddle and running this place had finally caught up with her. She got diagnosed three months ago with mild heart failure and had the doctors loadin' her up with medication and enough instructions to fill a binder. Hence why she and I lived under the same roof again.

She flipped another strip of bacon before pointin' her spatula toward the staircase.

"I thought the bull ridin' days were behind you," she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Or you just miss it enough to start thinkin' about takin' the bull's place instead?"

A groan slipped out before I could stop it, toast still crammed in my mouth; only then did she finally look over at me, one eyebrow climbin'.

"None of that. I heard far too much of it for my poor old ears, and must you keep bringin' home women who sound like barkin' chihuahuas? Lord above, my readin' glasses near cracked clean in half with how high-pitched she was."

I sucked in a breath at exactly the wrong moment, and the toast ended up lodged halfway down my throat.

"And here I was thinkin' I'd never hear that gaggin' sound ever again." She commented, lifting her hands to smooth her black-and-grey-streaked hair.

My chest burned while I coughed hard enough that I was sure I was having an out-of-body experience.

"Mom." I croaked out, both pleading and complaining for her to stop.

Right then my phone started ringin'. I frowned at the unknown number but answered anyway.

"Cash Holloway," I answered in greeting as I swiped the answer button.

"Hello, Mr. Holloway. This is Doctor Robert Sanchez from Spirit County Hospital. We've had an incident regarding your semen cryopreservation."

"I'm sorry," I said slowly, hoping I'd misheard, "Regarding my what?"

"There has been a laboratory mix-up. We'd appreciate it if you could come to the hospital as soon as possible." Doctor Sanchez insisted, and my mom watched every bit of color drain from my face.

She didn't bother askin' questions. She simply just turned off the stove, grabbed her coat, and waited for me to grab my car keys.

Neither of us had much to say, and my hands stayed wrapped around that steering wheel so tight that if it could talk, it’d be beggin’ for a safe word.

By the time we pulled into Spirit County Hospital, my gut had tied itself into one hell of a knot.

Doctor Sanchez met us outside his office wearin' the kind of grim blank face doctors put on when somebody's world's about to get flipped upside down.

A woman already sat across from his desk.

Your posture was arguably stiffer than mine, and your hands were clasped tightly together in your lap. This was not good.

"Mr. Holloway," he began, keepin' his voice steady though there seemed to be a slight anxious edge to it, "this is {{user}}. I'm so sorry, but as I mentioned on the phone, there was a laboratory error involving your cryopreserved sperm sample and the donor sample that was intended for {{user}}'s insemination."

Was the room meant to be shiftin' like I'd been knocked off a bull?

"{{user}} is currently pregnant."

My ears had already started ringin’ by the time he finished sayin’ what needed sayin’.

"With your child."