Chapter 9
Callie
Poetry phase? That’s concerning.
I sit up, decision made before my brain fully engages.
The smart move would be staying in bed, maybe taking up a wholesome hobby like quilting or gossiping about other people’s scandals instead of creating my own.
But smart moves are for people who don’t have three devastatingly handsome cowboys sending them texts in the middle of the night, who also happen to be your family’s sworn enemies.
“Fuck it,” I announce to my empty room, throwing off the blanket.
I grab yesterday’s jean shorts from the floor, the ones Dad says are too short but I wear anyway because his opinions on my hemlines stopped mattering when I started paying my own bills. My boots are mud-caked, and my T-shirt does not hide the collection of hickeys decorating my collarbone.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and laugh. I look like exactly what I am, a woman who spent last night getting thoroughly fucked and is about to make the same mistake again.
The house is silent as I creep downstairs, avoiding the squeaky third step but not and the floorboard near the kitchen that groans like it’s dying. Rita’s passed out in her pen outside, snoring.
The morning air hits me as I step outside, cool and sharp enough to wake me. The sky is a pre-dawn gray that makes everything look like a low-budget horror movie. Perfect atmosphere for sneaking across property lines to get railed by three brothers. So. Romantic.
Whatever.
The walk across the pasture takes eight minutes on a good day, six if I’m motivated. Today I make it in five.
“Worst idea ever,” I mutter as I approach, but my feet keep moving. “Absolutely terrible. Ten out of ten, would not recommend to friends.”
But here’s the thing about terrible ideas. Sometimes they come with excellent benefits. Like orgasms. Multiple orgasms. The kind that make you forget your own name and consider taking up religion just so you have someone to thank.
I knock on the door, soft enough not to wake the dead but loud enough to be heard over whatever Jesse’s doing in there. Probably writing sonnets about my ass. The door swings open immediately, like he was standing there waiting.
He’s shirtless because of course he is, gray sweatpants hanging low enough to count as a public service. His hair’s sticking up in all directions and he’s grinning like Christmas came early.
“Knew you’d come,” he says, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.
“Wow, starting with the double entendres already? It’s so early.”
“Never too early.” He pulls me inside before I can respond, kicking the door shut behind us. “Also, you’re wearing my favorite shorts.”
“These are my only shorts that still fit after all the stress eating I’ve been doing.”
“Stress eating?” His hands are already on my hips, thumbs sliding under the waistband. “What stress?”
“Oh, you know. Family drama, town scandal, three cowboys who think sending thirsty texts at dawn is acceptable behavior.”
“You responded,” he points out, backing me against the wall.
“Moment of weakness.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to come over here as much as we wanted you to.”
His mouth finds mine before I can argue, and any witty comeback dies on my tongue. He kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, all heat and demand and the kind of confidence that should be annoying but instead makes my knees weak.
“Where are your brothers?” I manage when we come up for air.
“Kitchen. Attempting breakfast. There’s been one small fire already.”
“At six in the morning?”
“We’re early risers.” His grin turns wicked. “In multiple ways.”
“That’s a terrible joke. Like, genuinely awful. Are you twelve years old?”
“Twelve inches, maybe.”
“Jesse McCoy, that is the worst—”
He shuts me up by kissing me again, and this time, I don’t bother protesting. His hands are under my shirt, mine are in his hair, and we’re about thirty seconds from public indecency when someone clears their throat.
“Jesse, stop molesting our guest,” Wyatt says from the doorway. “At least let her get properly inside first.”
I peek around Jesse to see Wyatt leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug, looking like he stepped out of a hot cowboys annual calendar. His dark hair’s damp from a shower, and he’s wearing jeans and nothing else, which, to be honest, is killing me.
Behind him, Boone is wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook” and pancake batter in his hair.
“Breakfast is a disaster, by the way,” Boone announces cheerfully. “But we have coffee. And bacon. Slightly carbonized bacon, but bacon nonetheless.”
“I’m not here for breakfast,” I say, then realize how that sounds. Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean—”
“We know what you’re here for,” Wyatt says, his eyes doing that thing where they go dark and intense. “Question is, are you sure you want it?”
I push Jesse aside and walk straight up to Wyatt, getting close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Do I look unsure to you?”
He studies my face for a long moment, taking in the hickeys, the messy hair, and the general air of someone who’s throwing caution to the wind.
“You look pretty certain, actually,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
“Our kind of certain,” Boone adds, pulling me into the kitchen. “The best kind of certain. The kind that makes life interesting.”
The kitchen looks like a bomb went off. A breakfast bomb. There’s flour on every surface, something burning on the stove that might have been edible at one time. Even the ceiling has a blob of pancake batter on it.
“My goodness,” I say, surveying the damage. “What happened?”
“Boone happened,” Jesse says, sliding his arms around me from behind. “He has this effect on kitchens. It’s like they sense his presence and go on strike rather than submit to his cooking.”
“I’m experimenting with technique,” Boone defends himself, spatula in hand like a weapon.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Wyatt asks, rescuing what’s left of the bacon from its charcoal fate.
“By the way,” I say, looking around the chaos, “where’s your dad?”
“Cattle auction other side of the state,” Jesse murmurs against my neck, his breath making me shiver. “Won’t be back for a few days.”
“How convenient.”
“Very,” Wyatt agrees, setting a plate of salvageable bacon on the table. “Almost like we planned it.”
“Did you?”
“Would you be impressed if we did?” Boone asks, finally giving up on whatever he’s attempting to cook and turning off the stove.
“I’d be impressed if you could make toast without requiring a fire extinguisher.”
Despite the kitchen looking like a flour factory exploded, the guys manage to produce actual, edible food.
Jesse’s pancakes are golden and perfect, because the universe decided he needed to be good at everything.
Boone’s bacon is a testament to char, crispy on one side, raw on the other, achieving that rare state of being both overcooked and undercooked at the same time.
And Wyatt’s scrambled eggs are, predictably, flawless.
“These pancakes are offensive,” I tell Jesse, drowning my stack in butter and syrup.
“Offensive?” Jesse asks
“Too good. You’re already hot, annoyingly confident, and allegedly good in bed. You don’t get to also be competent at cooking. Pick a struggle.”
“Allegedly good in bed?” He raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure we moved past alleged around the third time you screamed my name last night.”
“I have an enthusiastic personality.”
“You have a naturally loud personality,” Wyatt corrects, sitting down across from me with his own plate. “The neighbors are a mile away and you nearly woke them.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“That’s being conservative,” Boone chimes in, sliding into the seat next to me. “Pretty sure dogs in the next county were howling in response.”
I steal a piece of Jesse’s bacon since mine looks is no doubt carcinogenic. “You three are terrible for my ego.”
“Your ego’s fine,” Jesse says. “Remember when you were twelve and keyed Wyatt’s truck?”
“That was never proven in a court of law.”
“You literally signed your name,” Wyatt points out.
“Allegedly signed.”
“You wrote ‘Callie Thompson was here, suck it McCoys’ in your perfect penmanship.”
“Could’ve been anyone named Callie Thompson.”
“You’re the only Callie Thompson in three counties.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
Boone chokes on his coffee, laughing. “God, you were such a little shit. Remember when she put sugar in our gas tanks?”
“That was salt, and it was only Jesse’s truck.”
“Why only mine?” Jesse demands.
“You called me ‘shortstack’ at the grocery store.”
“You were short!”
“I was having a growth delay!”
“You were four-foot-eight until freshman year,” Wyatt adds unhelpfully.
“And then I hit five-foot-six and became your walking wet dream, so who’s laughing now?”
There’s a beat of silence where they all look at me, and the air in the kitchen suddenly feels charged.
“We thought you’d end up in prison,” Boone says, breaking the tension. “Or at least juvie. You were constantly getting into trouble.”
“I was expressing myself.”
“You were expressing yourself by supergluing the neighbor’s mailbox shut,” Jesse points out.
“She kept leaving rude notes about our lawn height.”
“Fair,” Wyatt concedes.
“See? I was a vigilante. Like Batman, but female and with less money.”
“Way less money,” Jesse agrees. “Remember when you tried to sell lemonade but it was just water with yellow food coloring?”
“That was an art project about capitalism.”
“That was fraud.”
“Creative fraud. And false advertising. You could have ended up in prison. If you’d advertised it on the internet, you could end up being charged with wire fraud, too.”
“See, I’m actually an overachiever. Never go to prison over one measly little thing.”
“Your mom would’ve gotten a kick out of this,” Wyatt says, and the kitchen goes still.
The words hit me unexpectedly, making my chest tight. It’s been years since she died, but sometimes it still catches me off guard, these random moments where her absence feels fresh.