Chapter 2
WYATT
I should have walked away the minute I saw that Thompson girl struggling with her goat behind our barns. Should have turned around and minded my own business instead of standing here watching her fight with a stubborn animal and a stolen belt that we’d fully surrendered earlier at the county fair.
But here I am anyway, watching Callie Thompson wrestle with Rita, something she seems to spend a lot of time doing.
She’s managed to get Boone’s belt wrapped around her legs, and the leather against her jeans is doing things to my concentration I don’t want to acknowledge.
The goat’s bleating indignantly, Callie’s cursing under her breath, something about “demonic animals” and “why can’t you be normal.
” The way she bites her lower lip in frustration has me gripping the fence post harder than necessary.
Christ. I need to look away. But she drops to her knees to work the belt free, and her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin at her lower back that makes my mouth go dry.
This is ridiculous. She’s Hank Thompson’s daughter.
Off-limits. Enemy territory. But when she pushes her hair back from her face, frustrated and flushed, something hot coils in my gut that has nothing to do with family feuds.
“Need some help there?” Jesse calls out, that trademark smirk already spreading across his face. I watch him watch her, see the way his eyes track down her body, and something dark and possessive rises in my chest that I have no right to feel.
“I’ve got it,” Callie snaps, but she clearly doesn’t.
Rita has somehow managed to tangle herself even worse, and now, the belt is twisted around one of the fence posts too.
When she stretches to reach it, her tank top pulls tight across her chest, and I have to force myself to look at the barn, the sky, anywhere but the curve of her waist.
I step forward before I can stop myself, drawn like she’s got her own gravitational pull. “Thompson hands on McCoy property,” I mutter, more out of habit than any real conviction. “Pretty sure that’s against the rules.”
Callie looks up at me, her face flushed and her hair falling out of its ponytail, dark strands framing her face in a way that makes my fingers itch to tuck them behind her ear. “Pretty sure your goat-wrestling skills aren’t covered in the family feud handbook either, but here we are.”
She’s got a point, not that I’m about to admit it.
The so-called rules of this family feud have never made much sense to me, but they’re rules nonetheless, and rules my brothers and I never break.
Stay away from Thompsons. Don’t speak to Thompsons.
Definitely don’t help Thompsons with their livestock problems. And absolutely, under no circumstances, ever notice how their daughter looks in tight jeans.
Except, here I am, crouched down next to her, working to untangle them both from Boone’s belt while trying to ignore how close Callie is.
She smells like something warm and female that makes my blood run hot.
When she shifts to give me better access to the belt, her shoulder brushes mine, and the contact sends electricity straight through me.
“Hold her steady,” I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than intended, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
“I’m trying. She’s stronger than she looks.”
“Most troublemakers are.” The words come out before I can stop them, and when she turns to look at me, we’re close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose.
Callie shoots me a look, her lips parting slightly. “Are we talking about the goat or something else?”
I don’t answer that. Can’t answer that, because the truth is I’m not sure. All I know is that her mouth is right there, pink and slightly chapped from her biting it, and I’m having thoughts about a Thompson that would get me disowned.
Rita stops struggling long enough for me to work the belt free, my fingers brushing Callie’s as we both reach for it. She jerks back like she’s been burned, and the flash of awareness in her eyes tells me she felt it too, whatever this electric current is between us.
“There,” I say, standing up too quickly and brushing dirt off my jeans, needing distance before I do something stupid like pull her against me. “Crisis averted.”
“Until the next one,” Callie sighs, and when she stands, she’s close enough that I catch her scent again. “Rita’s got a talent for disasters.”
“Must run in the family,” I say without thinking, immediately wanting to take it back when hurt flashes across her face.
The words hang in the air between us, and I immediately regret them.
Not because they’re untrue, after all, Callie Thompson is definitely a disaster waiting to happen, but because the kind of disaster she represents has nothing to do with goats and everything to do with how badly I want to press her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
Her eyes narrow, and that smart mouth of hers opens, probably to deliver another comeback that’ll make Jesse laugh and Boone snort. But all I can focus on is her lips, the way her chest rises and falls with indignation, the fire in her eyes that makes me want to stoke it higher.
The goat situation should have ended there.
Should have been a simple case of returning stolen property and sending Callie on her way.
But I can’t help watching her walk, the sway of her hips, the determined set of her shoulders.
My hands are still tingling from where our fingers brushed, and I’m furious at myself for noticing.
But my brother Jesse’s never been one to let sleeping dogs lie. Or sleeping goats, in this case. Or Thompson girls who make the blood run hot just by existing in the same space.
“Here,” he says before Callie’s gotten far. He pulls a spare halter from the fence post. “This’ll work better than whatever makeshift leash you’ve got there.”
She turns back, and the late afternoon sun hits her face just right.
My jaw clenches. I need to stop cataloguing every detail about her—the way she tucks that one stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, how her tank top is slightly damp with sweat and clinging in ways that are going to haunt my dreams.
Jesse holds out the halter, but instead of handing it over, waits for her to reach for it. Fucker. I see his game immediately, and something violent rises in my chest. When she reaches forward, he shifts his grip so his fingers deliberately brush hers.
Asshole.
The contact lasts maybe three seconds. Three seconds where I watch her pupils dilate, watch the pulse jump in her throat, watch her lips part slightly in surprise.
Three seconds that feel like three hours while something primitive and possessive roars to life inside me.
That should be my hand touching hers. My fingers making her breath catch.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Callie jerks her hand back like she’s been burned, and the flush spreading down her neck makes me wonder how far it goes. Will it reach her chest? Will it… Christ, I need to stop this crap.
“Relax,” Jesse says, his voice dropping to that tone he uses when he’s hunting. “I’m not contagious.”
Boone’s grin widens. “Dude, I don’t think that’s true about herpes...”
Jesse’s gaze snaps in Boone’s direction and for a moment, I think he might actually commit fratricide. I can relate because I want to kill Jesse, myself. Want to grab him by the throat and tell him to back the hell off, that he doesn’t get to touch her, doesn’t get to make her blush like that.
“I do not have—” Jesse starts to say.
Callie’s snort shuts us all up. The sound shouldn’t be attractive, but somehow on her it is. Everything she does is attractive, and that’s the problem. The way she’s fighting not to smile, the way she’s trying to look unaffected when I can see her hands trembling slightly.
Jesse’s always been a flirt, always been the one to charm his way out of trouble or into whatever he wants. But this is different. This is Jesse going after something he shouldn’t want, something that could destroy everything. And the worst part? I want it too.
A dangerous line.
I shoot him a warning look that he completely ignores. Of course he does. Jesse sees what he wants and takes it, consequences be damned. And right now, what he wants is standing five feet away in jeans that should be illegal and a tank top that’s driving me to distraction.
“So you are contagious, Jesse?” Callie asks, but there’s color in her cheeks now. A pink flush that makes me wonder what she’d look like properly worked up, breathing hard, skin flushed everywhere—
Stop. Fucking stop.
Jesse shrugs, and I watch him look her up and down with absolutely no shame. His gaze lingers on her legs, travels up slowly, appreciating every curve. My fists clench. “Pretty girl, you’re trouble. The kind of trouble a smart man would stay away from.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re smart,” she fires back, but her voice is breathier than before. She feels it too, this pull between all of us.
Jesse laughs, a sound that’s part amusement and part dark promise. “You got me there.”
Behind us, Boone snickers, enjoying the show. He’s always liked watching Jesse get shot down by women, and he’s definitely enjoying watching Jesse’s attempt at charm backfire on a Thompson.
Except it’s not backfiring. Not entirely.
Because despite her sharp words and defensive posture, Callie’s still standing here.
Still talking to us. Still letting Jesse look at her like she’s something he wants to have for dinner.
And worse, she’s looking back. Her gaze flicks between Jesse and me, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us.
Her breath catches, and I have to lock my knees to keep from closing the distance between us.
“I should go,” she says, but she doesn’t move. Her body betrays her, leaning slightly toward us like a flower toward the sun.