Chapter 3
CALLIE
I’m loading the last bag of feed into my cart, trying to ignore Jesse, who’s leaning against my cart with that sexy, practiced pose that probably works on every other woman in Cedar Ridge. The way his jeans sit low on his hips, the casual confidence in how he takes up space. It’s not fair, dammit.
But he’s not getting to me. Definitely not me. Even if his forearms look ridiculously good with his sleeves rolled up like that.
“So,” he says, and his voice has this low rumble that makes my stomach flip, “tell me about Rita’s diet.”
I pause, a twenty-five-pound bag halfway into my truck. “Her diet?”
“Yeah. What do you feed her? I’m thinking about getting a goat myself.”
The lie is so obvious, I laugh. Jesse McCoy getting a goat is about as likely as me joining a nunnery. Although the way his eyes track down my body when he thinks I’m not looking suggests neither of us is cut out for religious life.
“You’re not getting a goat,” I say flatly, trying to ignore how my skin heats under his gaze.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re stalling. Making conversation. You’re just chatting me up. You don’t actually care about Rita’s eating habits.”
Jesse grins, not even trying to deny it, and God help me, that smile does things to my insides. “Maybe I care about Rita. She’s got personality. And she’s cute. A little smelly, but cute. The beard, though…”
“She’s got problems.”
“So do I. We’d get along.” He shifts closer, and I catch his scent—something woodsy and male that makes my mouth water.
Despite myself, I find my mouth twitching toward a smile. My body betrays me further by leaning slightly toward him. “Rita eats hay, grain, and whatever she can steal. She’s not picky.”
“What kind of grain?” Jesse asks, like he’s actually taking notes, but his eyes are on my lips, not my words. “Corn? Oats? Something fancy?”
“You’re really committing to this bit, aren’t you?”
“I’m a dedicated man.” The way he says “dedicated” with that low voice makes me wonder what else he’s dedicated about.
I roll my eyes but find myself explaining anyway, needing something to focus on besides the heat pooling low in my belly. “Sweet feed, mostly. Some alfalfa pellets. Goats are pretty easy to please.”
“Unlike their owners?”
“Rita’s the easy one in this relationship.”
Jesse laughs, and the sound vibrates through me, making my nipples tighten beneath my thin T-shirt. I cross my arms, hoping he doesn’t notice. “What about treats? I bet she likes treats.”
“She likes everything. That’s the problem. Yesterday, she ate my dad’s newspaper.”
“Oh no. Did she get the sports section?”
“Does it matter?” My voice comes out breathier than intended because he’s moved even closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“I’m building a comprehensive goat-care profile here. Details matter.”
I’m about to tell him exactly what I think of his goat-care profile when Wyatt appears, looking like sin wrapped in worn denim. My stomach does a completely different kind of flip, darker, more dangerous.
“Goats eat tin cans,” he says in that flat, dismissive voice that shouldn’t make my thighs clench. “Who cares.”
The words hit me wrong, really wrong, but so does the way his gray eyes burn into mine. I straighten up and turn to face him fully, noting how his T-shirt stretches across his chest.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Goats are simple. Throw them some hay, they’ll figure it out.”
“That’s like saying dogs eat garbage, so just feed them any old shit,” I snap, even as my traitorous body responds to his commanding presence.
Wyatt’s eyes narrow, and the intensity in them makes my breath catch. “I didn’t say anything about dogs.”
“You didn’t have to. The attitude was crystal clear.”
“What attitude?”
“The attitude that says Rita doesn’t matter because she’s not your pet.”
“She’s a goat. They’re practically weeds with legs.”
The insult lands like a slap, but underneath my anger, there’s something else. The way he’s looking at me, like he wants to either shake me or kiss me, makes heat coil in my belly.
“Rita is not a weed,” I say, my voice rising enough to attract attention from other customers. “She’s smart and loyal and—”
“And currently trying to eat someone’s truck,” Boone interrupts, pointing toward the parking lot.
We all turn to see Rita, who has somehow escaped from my truck bed again, now attempting to chew on the rubber mud flap of a Ford F-150.
“Dammit,” I mutter, abandoning my cart to sprint toward the parking lot, very aware that all three brothers are watching my ass as I run.
“Smart and loyal,” Wyatt calls after me, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. The rough edge to it makes me shiver despite the heat.
“Shut up!” I yell back without turning around, because if I look at him right now, I might do something stupid. Like notice how good he looks when he’s being an asshole.
By the time I reach Rita, she’s moved on from the mud flap to the truck’s antenna, thanks to her ability to jump on the hoods of cars.
“Rita, no!” I grab her collar and pull her away from her latest victim. “Bad goat. Very bad goat.”
She looks at me with those innocent brown eyes, and bleats.
“Don’t give me that look. You know what you did.”
I glance back toward my truck to see all three McCoy brothers watching.
Jesse’s grinning with heat in his eyes, Boone’s doubled over laughing in a way that shows off his back muscles, and Wyatt looks like someone just proved his point about goats being weeds with legs.
But there’s something else in his expression too.
Something hungry that makes my skin flush.
“That’s it,” I announce to Rita as I lead her back to my truck, trying to ignore the way my body throbs with unwanted awareness. “No more feed store trips for you. From now on, you’re staying home.”
Rita bleats again.
As I secure her more carefully in the truck bed, I catch sight of Wyatt shaking his head and saying something to his brothers that makes Jesse punch his shoulder. The casual violence between them, the easy physicality, sends an unexpected rush of heat through me.
I don’t need to hear the words to know he’s probably making another crack about goats and weeds and the general chaos that follows me everywhere.
“Come on, girl,” I mutter to Rita, climbing into the driver’s seat and trying to ignore how my hands shake. “Let’s go home before you give them any more ammunition.”
But as I drive away, I can’t stop thinking about the way Jesse looked when he was asking about Rita’s diet, like he genuinely wanted to know. Like he wanted any excuse to keep talking to me, to keep standing close enough that I could feel his intention.
And I can’t stop thinking about the way Wyatt dismissed her, like she doesn’t matter because she’s not one of his precious dogs. The intensity in his eyes that said he was thinking about something completely different than goats.
Most of all, I can’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to prove him wrong. To push his buttons. To make him lose that iron control.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that’s going to get me in trouble.
The wet, aching kind of trouble that my body is suddenly craving.
Two hours later, I’m mucking out Rita’s pen when I hear the telltale sound of her gate creaking open. My body’s still thrumming from the encounter at the feed store, and I’ve changed shirts twice because I kept imagining I could smell those guys on me.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, spinning around with the pitchfork still in my hands.
But Rita’s already halfway across the yard, trotting toward the property line with the determined gait of someone on a mission.
“Rita! Get back here!”
She ignores me completely, her usual response to my commands.
I drop the pitchfork and take off after her, but Rita’s got a head start and four legs to my two. By the time I catch up, she’s crossed onto McCoy land and is heading straight for their water trough. As if our water is not good enough.
Of course. Of course she’d head straight for McCoy territory, like she knows exactly how on edge I already am.
“Rita, no,” I pant, catching her collar just as she’s about to dive in. “If you have to escape, couldn’t you at least pick a different direction? Like toward town? Or Mars? Anywhere that doesn’t involve me seeing those three again while I’m still...”
Still what? Still turned on from earlier? Still replaying the way Jesse’s fingers would have felt in my hair? Still imagining what Wyatt’s hands would feel like on my bare…
She bleats and pulls away from me.
“I’m serious. Anywhere but here. The neighbors to the west have a nice pond. The Johnson place has that pretty creek. But no, you head straight for the one place that’s going to get us both in trouble.”
She responds by jerking free and belly-flopping into the trough.
“Perfect,” I mutter, watching her wallow in the dirty water like it’s some kind of goat spa. “Just perfect.”
By the time she’s done with her impromptu bath, Rita looks like she’s been dipped in chocolate.
Wet, sticky chocolate that’s going to be impossible to get off without a proper wash.
The dirty clings to her coat, and somehow, I end up with it splattered on my top, now clinging to my curves in a way that’s not exactly ladylike.
“You can’t go home like that,” I tell her. “Dad will have a stroke.”
Rita shakes herself, sending muddy droplets flying and making my top even more transparent.
I glance around the McCoy ranch, looking for options. There’s a hose coiled next to the barn, attached to a spigot that’s definitely on their property. My pulse quickens at the thought of them catching me here. It’s anxiety. Pure anxiety.
“This is a terrible idea,” I announce to no one in particular.
But Rita’s not getting any cleaner standing there, and I’m not dragging a mud-covered goat across the pasture to get home. Plus, I’m now covered in enough mud that Dad will ask questions.