Free Ramsey: A Military Bad Boy Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 3) by Juliana Conners Page A

Good.
    I kiss her for a long, slow moment, savoring the last one I’ll have with her.
    “Goodbye, Ramsey,” she says. “Thanks for an amazing Just For One Weekend.”
    “Amazing indeed.”
    I walk back into the house, determined not to look back. But she gives a little beep of her horn, and I turn around and wave, feeling as giddy as a school kid.
    Well, that was that , I think, as I step back into the house.
    “Ramsey Bradford, what do you think you’re doing, forgetting all about your ole ma to run around with that girl for three days straight?”
    My mom is standing up and walking over to me, if one could call it walking. More like staggering.
    “What are you talking about?” I ask her, annoyed.
    This is not what I need right now.
    “Gallivanting around town with your new lover instead of being here to take care of your mom.”
    I walk closer to her, but when we reach each other she throws up her arms as if she wants to hit me. I catch them, easily, in my hands. She reeks of alcohol.
    “Mom, I wasn’t gallivanting anywhere. I had training, remember? I was on base. And where were you ?”
    She glares at me, and it makes me sad to see confusion underneath her angry and empty stare— but I remember what Monica said— I need to think about what’s best for me. And Mom has made me really mad these past few days.
    “Go lay back down, Mom,” I say, walking her back over to the couch.
    “Don’t tell me what to do,” she protests, but she flops back down onto the couch.
    “Mom, I want you to stay here and sober up. I’m not leaving today, so you’re not either. But things have got to change. Once you’ve come to your senses, we’re going to have a long talk.”
    “You can’t boss me around,” she says, glaring at me, but she quickly falls back asleep.
    I get her a glass of water from the kitchen and place it on the coffee table for when she wakes up. Then I text Jensen and Harlow.
    Found a place for Mom. Let’s meet later with her to let her know .
    I sigh before I send it, because I really didn’t think it would come to this. But what other choice do I have? I can’t keep track of Mom from Afghanistan. I can’t even do a very good job of keeping track of her in my own house.
    Her accusations about me gallivanting around town with my new girlfriend ring in my ears. Mom should know me better than that. Monica doesn’t live in this town. And, for better or worse, Monica isn’t my girlfriend.
    I don’t do girlfriends.
    I just have to remember to keep reminding myself of that, even though Monica is the closest I’ve ever come to falling for someone.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 15
     

     
    “So, how was your trip?” asks Susan, nearly as soon as I walk in the door.
    Her daughter— my four- year- old niece, Becky, smothers me with hugs.
    “Aunt Monica! You’re home! Play with me, play with me!”
    But Susan seems to be just as excited to see me. She was obviously very lonely while I was gone.
    I tickle Becky and then say, “Let me talk with Mommy for a while, then I’ll come up to your room and play with you.”
    I land a soft kiss on my baby nephew Mason’s forehead, as he sleeps comfortably in his mother’s arms.
    “Can we play princess tea party?” Becky asks.
    “Sure, Love. I may have brought you back something for that very purpose.”
    “Yay!” She jumps up and down in excitement. “A present! Can I have it? Can I have it! Where is it?”
    “Becky, be polite and wait for your aunt to give you your gift.”
    “Okay!” She skips upstairs to her room, saying, “I’ll set up the table and get our dresses out!”
    “So anyway,” Susan says. “How was your trip?”
    “It was great.”
    I must be smiling more than I thought I was, because she says, “What’s his name ?”
    “What?”
    I try to feign innocence.
    “How did you…?” I start to ask her.
    “Because it’s written all over your face,” she says. “Monica Carrington, I haven’t