Chapter 4
JESSE
I’m sitting in the back row of the community center, half listening to Mayor Davidson drone on about the annual Founders’ Day fundraiser, when I spot her. Callie Thompson, three rows up, fidgeting with her phone and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
Can’t say I blame her. These town meetings are about as exciting as watching paint dry.
“Now,” the mayor says, adjusting his glasses and peering at his notes, “we need to announce this year’s fundraiser teams. As you know, we’re pairing families and businesses together to promote community unity.”
Community unity. Right. In a town where half the population still takes sides in a thirty-year-old chili feud.
“The Thompson family will be partnered with...” he pauses dramatically, like he’s announcing the winner of the lottery, “the McCoy brothers for the three-legged race, chili cook-off, and pie auction booth.”
Pure silence follows.
Finally, Callie’s voice cuts through it, loud and clear. “There has to be a mistake.”
Every head in the room turns toward her. Her face goes red, but she doesn’t back down.
“I mean,” she continues, her voice slightly higher, “surely there’s been some kind of... administrative error?”
Mayor Davidson shifts in his seat, shuffling through his papers and frowning. “No error, Miss Thompson. These pairings are random. Very fair and impartial.”
I lean back in my folding chair, letting a slow grin spread across my face. “Best mistake I’ve had all week.”
The words carry in the silent room, and now, every eye is bouncing between Callie and me like they’re watching a tennis match.
Callie whips around to glare at me, and I give her a little wave.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“The pairings are final,” Mayor Davidson announces, clearly sensing the tension and wanting to move on. “Unless you decline to participate. Teams will meet tomorrow at Miller’s Field for practice and coordination.”
That’s when I notice Hank Thompson, Callie’s dad, in the front row, his face cycling through several shades of red. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash on the community center floor.
Wyatt, sitting next to me, leans over and mutters, “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Probably,” I agree, still grinning.
Boone, on my other side, snickers. “Can we bet on how long it takes before someone ends up covered in chili?”
“My money’s on five minutes,” I say.
“I’m not taking that bet,” Wyatt says grimly. “That’s easy money.”
The mayor continues reading pairings, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m watching Callie, who’s slumped in her chair like she’s been sentenced to hard labor.
Mrs. Delaney, of course, has her phone out and is not-so-subtly taking pictures of Callie’s reaction. I can practically see the Facebook post forming in her head: “Star-crossed lovers forced together by fate!”
When the meeting finally ends, people file out, but not before half of them detour past our row to offer commentary.
“This should be interesting,” says the post office lady says with a knowing smile.
“Y’all try not to kill each other,” adds the hardware store owner.
“I’m making popcorn for this,” announces a teenager.
Callie stands up abruptly, grabbing her purse like it’s a weapon. She’s clearly planning to make a quick exit, but she gets caught in the crowd of people who are all suddenly very interested in talking to her.
“Callie, honey,” Mrs. Peterson from the bank corners her, “how do you feel about working with the McCoy boys?”
“Like I’m drowning,” Callie replies flatly.
“Oh, that’s nice, dear. Staying hydrated is important.”
I make my way through the crowd toward the front of the room, Wyatt and Boone trailing behind me. By the time I reach Callie, she’s surrounded by half the town, all of them offering unsolicited advice.
“Just remember to keep your sense of humor,” suggests the librarian.
“Don’t let them intimidate you,” adds the postmaster.
“Take lots of pictures,” Mrs. Delaney chimes in, still holding her phone.
Callie’s eyes find mine over the crowd, and I see something like panic mixed with resignation.
“Ladies,” I say, stepping into the circle, “mind if I borrow our teammate here? We need to discuss strategy.”
“Strategy,” Mrs. Delaney repeats, typing furiously. “Very strategic. I like it.”
“There’s no strategy,” Callie says quickly. “We’re just going to... participate. Minimally.”
“That’s not the spirit,” I tell her. “We’re going to dominate this competition.”
“We’re going to survive it,” she corrects.
“Same thing.”
Hank Thompson chooses that moment to appear at Callie’s elbow, his face still that alarming shade of red.
“Callie,” he says, his voice tight with control, “we need to discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Dad. The pairings are final. Unless you want to bow out, which will not be good for business.”
“Nothing’s final until I talk to the mayor.”
“You’re not talking to the mayor,” Callie says firmly. “We’re going to do this, raise money for the community center, and act like civilized human beings.”
“Civilized,” Hank repeats, looking at me like I’m something he’d scrape off his boot. “Right.”
“Mr. Thompson,” I say, extending my hand, “I’m looking forward to working with your daughter. She seems very... spirited.”
Hank looks at my hand like it might bite him, then reluctantly shakes it with the enthusiasm of handling a dead fish.
“Just remember,” he says, his voice low enough that only we can hear, “she’s a Thompson. And Thompsons don’t back down from a fight.”
“Wouldn’t expect them to,” I reply. “McCoys don’t either.”
The handshake lasts exactly three seconds, but the tension stretches for what feels like an hour, especially when Mr. Thompson wipes his hand on his pants.
Damn.
“Well,” Callie says brightly, clearly trying to break the mood, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
“Tomorrow at Miller’s Field,” I tell her. “Ten a.m. sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” she says. “With bells on.”
“Please don’t actually wear bells,” Boone pipes up. “The goat might try to eat them.”
“Rita’s staying home,” Callie says firmly.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
“The fun is in not having to explain to the fire department why a goat is stuck in the donation booth.”
“Yeah, that was interesting,” Boone says.
“That was enough.”
As the crowd thins out, I find myself standing closer to Callie than I probably should. Close enough to smell her shampoo and something else that’s just plain natural girl. It’s killing me.
“You know,” I say quietly, “this might actually be fun.”
“Your definition of fun and mine are not the same,” she replies.
“How do you know? We’ve never had fun together.”
“We’ve never had anything together.”
“Exactly my point.”
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and for a second, I think I see something softer in her face. Something that might be curiosity instead of exasperation.
Then Hank clears his throat loudly, and the moment breaks.
“Tomorrow,” I say, taking a step back. “Don’t be late, pretty girl.”
“I’m never late,” she says.
“Good. I hate waiting.”
As I walk away with my brothers, I can hear Mrs. Delaney already on the phone with someone, probably half the town, sharing the exciting news about the “forced romance” situation.
“You’re enjoying this way too much, Jess,” Wyatt tells me as we reach the parking lot.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“She’s interesting,” I say. “Smart. Funny. Stubborn as hell.”
“She’s a Thompson.”
“So?”
“So Dad’s going to have our heads if this goes sideways.”
“It’s a fundraiser, Wy, not a marriage proposal.”
“With the way you’re looking at her, I’m not so sure about that.”
I stop walking and turn to face both my brothers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Boone says with a grin, “you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look that says you’re thinking about doing something stupid.”
“I’m always thinking about doing something stupid. That’s my charm.”
“This is different,” Wyatt says. “This is Thompson-level stupid.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But it might be worth it.”
Miller’s Field at ten a.m. is as appealing as a root canal. The grass is wet with dew, the air smells like cow manure from the neighboring pasture, and someone has set up orange cones in what I can only assume is meant to be our practice course.
Callie’s already there when we arrive, standing next to a card table loaded with fabric strips and looking like she’s reconsidering her decision to show up.
“Morning, sunshine,” I call out as we approach.
“It’s too early for your charm,” she replies without looking up from the table.
“It’s never too early for my charm.”
“Trust me, it is.”
Wyatt and Boone flank me as we reach the table. Wyatt’s wearing his usual scowl, and Boone’s grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s seen all year.
“So,” Callie says, holding up a fabric strip, “we need to practice not falling on our faces in front of the entire town.”
“I’m excellent at not falling on my face,” I tell her.
The universe immediately punishes my hubris. I step forward confidently and my boot finds the one gopher hole in a five-foot radius. My ankle rolls, I windmill dramatically, and barely catch myself on the table, which wobbles dangerously.
“You were saying?” Callie deadpans.
Mayor Davidson appears with his notebook and way too much enthusiasm.
“Excellent! Our first team is here and ready to practice. Now, the three-legged race requires coordination, communication, and trust.”
“We’re doomed,” Callie mutters.
“I heard that, Miss Thompson. Positive thinking is key to success.”
“Positive thinking doesn’t change the laws of physics,” she replies.
“Now,” the mayor continues, “we’ll start with basic walking, then progress to running. The key is to move as one unit.”
He demonstrates with an invisible partner, high-stepping like a show pony while making what he probably thinks are helpful hand gestures but look more like he’s fighting off invisible bees.
“Questions?” he asks.