Chapter 2 #3
“Sure you don’t. Just like you don’t know why you need that pillow on your lap right now.”
Boone walks in, still carrying his belt. “I’m keeping this,” he announces. “Conversation starter.”
“With who?” Jesse asks.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll have a story to tell. Maybe about the day we all got hot and bothered by Callie Thompson.”
“Nobody got hot and bothered,” I lie.
“Right. That’s why you’re death-gripping that beer bottle like it’s the only thing keeping you from grabbing your dick right here and now.”
I look down and realize he’s right.
“I’m going to check the fence line,” I announce, heading for the door.
“Need help?” Boone asks.
“No.”
I need space. I need air. I need to stop thinking about her eyes and sharp tongue and the way Callie Thompson’s body moved when she wrestled with that goat. Need to stop imagining her moving like that beneath me, on top of me, against me.
But even out in the pasture, surrounded by nothing but cattle and sky, I can’t shake the memory of her. Can’t stop replaying the moment our fingers touched, the way her breath hitched, the heat in her eyes.
Can’t shake the feeling that something changed today.
Something that’s going to make staying away from her a hell of a lot tougher than it should be.
I wake up hard, aching, and frustrated from dreams about the way Callie’s tank top clung to her curves yesterday. Dreams where I found out exactly how flexible she is, and where her sharp comebacks turned into my name gasped against my ear.
I take care of it in the shower, stroking myself until I explode. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Fuck.
We need feed, and Millerton’s is the closest store, so there’s no avoiding the possibility of seeing her. I tell myself it’s just a routine supply run, nothing more.
I don’t tell myself why I spend an extra few minutes in the mirror or why I grab a clean shirt instead of the one I wore yesterday. The black one that fits tighter across my chest. The one Jesse calls my “trying to get laid” shirt.
Jesse and Boone are already loading up when I get to the truck.
“You look nice,” Jesse says with a knowing grin that I hate. “Special occasion?”
“Feed run.”
“In your fuck-me shirt?”
“It’s just a shirt.”
“Right. And I’m sure you’re wearing your good cologne for the feed store too.”
“I don’t wear cologne, asshole.”
I climb into the driver’s seat, but catch myself checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. Christ, when did I become that guy?
The store parking lot is busy, which is normal for a Tuesday morning with ranchers, farmers, and the rest of the usual crowd milling around, picking up supplies. I scan the lot, my pulse kicking up when I spot a familiar truck.
Thompson’s truck.
With the goat in the back.
My body reacts instantly, blood running hot, every nerve ending hyperaware.
“Well, well,” Jesse murmurs, following my gaze. “Look what the cat drug in.”
I should suggest we come back later. Should find an excuse to leave.
Instead, I park three spaces away and tell myself I’m being practical. Tell myself my hands aren’t itching to touch her.
We’re walking into the store when I hear it. A low, appreciative whistle from Jesse that makes my jaw clench and something possessive rise in my chest.
“Morning, pretty girl,” he calls out.
I look over to see Callie loading feed bags onto a cart, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that exposes the curve of her neck, her jeans fitting in a way that makes my mouth go dry. She’s bent over slightly, and the view is enough to make me stumble.
She looks up at Jesse’s call, and I catch the flash of irritation in her eyes. But there’s something else too. Her gaze sweeps over all three of us, lingering on my chest in the fitted shirt before snapping back to Jesse’s face.
“The name’s Callie,” she calls back, but her voice is slightly breathless.
“I know what it is,” Jesse says.
He starts walking toward her with that predatory grace he has when he’s hunting, and I follow, telling myself I’m just keeping an eye on him. Making sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.
Not admitting I need to be closer to her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Jesse says when we reach her, standing close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look up at him.
“It’s a feed store. People buy feed here, for their ranch animals. We both have ranches. So, not much of a coincidence if you ask me.”
“True. But seeing you here makes it more fun.”
I watch her roll her eyes, watch the way color creeps up her neck despite her sarcastic response. Watch the way her pulse flutters at the base of her throat.
“Does that line actually work on women?” she asks, but she’s leaning slightly toward him, drawn in despite herself.
“You tell me.” Jesse’s voice drops to that bedroom tone that usually makes women melt.
“It doesn’t.”
“Your body says otherwise.”
The words hang in the air, charged and electric. Callie’s breath catches, her lips parting slightly, and I see her nipples harden under her T-shirt. Fuck. I have to look away before I do something stupid like push Jesse aside to find out if she responds the same way to me.
“My body says I need more coffee,” she manages in a shaky voice.
“I could fix that problem for you,” Jesse offers, stepping closer. Close enough that I can see her chest rising and falling.
“By leaving me alone?”
“By buying you breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner. Then breakfast again.”
The implication is clear, and Callie’s face flames red. But she doesn’t step back. Doesn’t slap him. Instead, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and all three of us track the movement.
“I can’t,” she says finally, but the word comes out as almost a whimper.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Jesse’s grin fades slightly, and I feel something that might be relief. Or disappointment. I can’t tell anymore because all I can focus on is the way her shirt rides up when she reaches for another feed bag, exposing a strip of skin that makes my hands clench with the need to touch.
That’s when Boone, who’s been loading his own cart, decides to show off. He tries to carry too many bags at once, flexing obviously in Callie’s direction. One of the bags falls, followed by the others, sending feed scattered across the ground.
“Shit,” he mutters, then louder: “I meant to do that.”
I look at the mess, then my brother’s sheepish expression, and shake my head. “Boone.”
“They were stacked wrong.”
“They were stacked fine until you tried to show off.”
“I wasn’t showing off. I was demonstrating proper lifting technique.”
“By dropping everything?”
“It’s a process.”
I catch Callie watching this exchange with amusement, her eyes dancing, and when her gaze meets mine, I feel that same jolt of awareness I felt yesterday. Except stronger. Hotter. Her gaze drops to my chest again, and I swear I can feel it like a physical touch.
“Bad news,” I mutter under my breath, but I’m not sure if I’m talking about her or the way my body responds to her look.
“I heard that,” she says, with something flirtatious in her tone.
“Good. Maybe you’ll take the hint.”
“The only hint I’m taking is that you McCoys have a serious problem with lifting technique. Among other things.”
“What other things?” Jesse asks, leaning against her cart in a way that flexes his arms.
Her gaze travels over him slowly, deliberately. “Impulse control comes to mind.”
Boone laughs as he starts picking up the scattered bags. “She’s got you there, boys.”
“Nobody asked you,” I growl, but I move to help him anyway, needing to do something with my hands before I reach for her.
I’m crouched down, helping clean Boone’s mess, when I hear Callie ask, “Need help?”
I look up and immediately regret it. From this angle, I can see straight up the line of her body, and the view makes my mouth water. “We’ve got it,” I say quickly, my voice coming out rough.
“I don’t mind—”
“We’ve got it.”
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see her take a step back. But not before I catch the way her eyes darken when she looks down at me on my knees.
“Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to contaminate your feed bags with Thompson germs.”
Jesse steps closer to her, close enough that their bodies are almost touching. “Ignore him,” Jesse says quietly, intimately. “He’s grumpy in the mornings. Especially when he’s wound tight. Which is all the time.”
“I’m grumpy when Thompsons are involved,” I say, standing up too quickly, hiding how affected I am.
“Funny,” Callie says, and her gaze travels down my body slowly, lingering on the obvious problem I’m having underneath the fly of my blue jeans. “I’m the same way with McCoys. They make me very... grumpy.”
The way she says “grumpy” makes it clear we’re not talking about grumpiness anymore.
I fix her with my hardest stare, trying to ignore the heat in her eyes. “Then why are you still standing here?”
It’s a challenge, and we both know it. I’m waiting for her to back down, to walk away, to prove that she’s smart enough to stay away from trouble.
Instead, she crosses her arms, which only pushes her breasts up, and lifts that stubborn chin of hers.
“Because,” she says, taking a step closer to me, close enough that I catch her scent, “someone needs to make sure you don’t hurt yourselves. You’re clearly not qualified to handle basic lifting. Or other basic things.”
“What other basic things?” My voice comes out low, dangerous.
“Self-control comes to mind.” Her gaze drops pointedly to my jeans, where I’m failing spectacularly at self-control.
Boone bursts out laughing, breaking the tension. “I like her,” he announces. “She’s funny. And observant. Balls out.”
“Bad news,” I say again, but my voice is rough.
“The best kind,” Jesse adds with a wink, his hand brushing Callie’s hip as he moves past her.
She jumps at the contact, a small gasp escaping her lips that goes straight to my already painful situation.
From her truck, Rita lets out a loud bleat, as if she’s adding her own commentary.
“Hey, your goat agrees,” Boone says, grinning.
“Rita has excellent judgment,” Callie says, but her voice is shaky as she loads the last bag into her cart.
“About some things,” I mutter, watching the way her muscles flex with the movement.
She pushes her cart toward her truck, and Jesse falls into step beside her. I follow at a distance, trying not to stare at the sway of her hips. And failing miserably.
“Think about breakfast,” I hear Jesse say, his hand ghosting over the small of her back. “I know a place that serves coffee strong enough to wake the dead. And the booth seats are very private.”
“I’ll think about it,” she replies, but her voice is breathless, and when she glances back at me over her shoulder, the heat in her eyes makes me take a step forward before I catch myself.
Bad news, that’s what all of this is.