Chapter 37
Colter had no right to be this smug in a church rec room filled with crockpots and folding tables, but his body remembered everything from last night—her thighs shaking, her nails biting into his shoulders, her voice breaking when she’d screamed out his name.
Now Sutton stood across from him in a clean blouse and a freshly applied layer of lip gloss, looking every bit the composed single mom and absolutely none of the woman who’d told him to fuck her.
“Listen up!” someone called from the donation table.
It was Maribelle Windsor, who looked like southern hospitality dipped in venom and rolled in pearls.
She was somewhere north of seventy but styled like a debutante who’d never surrendered a crown—hair shellacked into a silver helmet, lipstick an aggressive shade of berry, and a string of pearls big enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons.
As the former general of the Bridlewood Regents—a title she refused to give up even when she lost to Rea by a vote of seventeen to one—she ran her organization with military precision.
Behind her church-lady smile lived a woman who could organize a fundraiser, raise a ruckus, or ruin a man with nothing but a pointed glare.
Everyone respected her.
Everyone feared her.
And God help whoever ignored her instructions. Which was why, at the sound of her voice, the room went silent.
“We need final numbers on the auction baskets,” she said with the authority of a drill sergeant. “Sutton?”
Sutton straightened notes on her clipboard like she hadn’t been naked against his mouth just hours ago.
“Three more baskets came in—spa day, bourbon tasting, and a kid’s craft kit,” she said all composure and professionalism.
He almost laughed. He wanted to drag her into a supply closet and ruin that prim facade.
Instead, Colter leaned against a table near her, just close enough that his elbow brushed her arm. She stiffened—not a flinch, not quite avoidance—but a physical reminder that her body remembered his.
She cleared her throat. “If we start the silent auction at noon, we can have the live portion by six—”
His voice slipped low, meant only for her. “You doing okay?”
She didn’t look at him. “Fine.”
His little liar. He could hear the edge in that single syllable—the same strain she’d had right before she came apart in his hands.
He dipped his head slightly. “You sure about that? You’ve been avoiding eye contact like I’m contagious.”
“We’re not talking about this here.”
“Why not? It happened.”
A stack of volunteer forms slapped against the table as she organized them with unnecessary force. “Exactly. It happened. Past tense.”
He smiled—not charming, not polite, but possessive as hell. “Freckles, that wasn’t past tense. That was a beginning.”
Now she did look at him—sharp and with warning. “It was sex. Great sex. But sex.”
“Colter!” Maribelle barked from across the room. “That banner isn’t going to hang itself. Front wall!”
He pushed off the table, but not before he lowered his mouth to Sutton’s ear and murmured, “You can pretend it was a one-time thing. I know better. And so does your body.”
Her inhale hitched. Good.
He straightened, masking heat with a lazy grin. “Be right there, Ms. Windsor!”
Volunteer chatter rose around him—donation logistics, dog-toy pricing, who was baking brownies—mundane noise, unaware of the current crackling between him and Sutton.
Colter grabbed the rolled banner, still feeling her stare scorch his spine. One-night stand?
Not a chance. He’d make damn sure it wasn’t. Not when she’d tasted like a promise and screamed like a fucking porn star.
Not when he still ached for more.
This wasn’t an ending. This was the opening move.
Colter was midway through wrestling the banner flat—one edge taped, the other flapping like it wanted to escape—when a familiar presence sidled up beside him.
Boone didn’t speak at first, just stood there with his arms folded and his chin tilted like he was observing a crime scene.
“So, you clearly didn’t heed my advice,” his brother said.
Colter pressed another strip of tape to vinyl. “Afraid not.”
“This the part where you tell me you just slipped up?”
“It was bound to happen.”
Boone gave him a look, the same disappointed but lightly amused one he used when Colter claimed he could rebuild an alternator with duct tape and faith.
“Sutton Rose is not a one-night-stand kind of woman,” Boone said.
“No. She isn’t.”
Boone waited. The bastard was good at waiting.
“She’s the one calling it a one-night stand,” Colter muttered.
Boone let out a bark of laughter loud enough to turn Maribelle’s head. He lowered his voice, only after she glared a warning in their direction.
“Well, hell,” Boone said. “My play-it-fast-and-loose brother finally gets taken for a spin. And she’s the one tossing his ass to the curb?”
Colter scowled. “She didn’t toss me.”
“Right. She just downgraded you to a commemorative event. Like the fair. It rolls into town once a year, lights up the sky, makes everyone feel something, and by Monday it's tire tracks and an empty field.”
Colter taped harder than necessary. “Jesus, Boone.”
“I mean, I spent your twenties trying to explain that women have feelings, and maybe don’t like being treated like the romantic equivalent of a gas station sandwich—”
“I never—”
Boone held up a hand. “—and now look. Karma showed up with a clipboard, a box of Ultra-Plus tampons, and one hell of a cute kid.”
Colter’s eyes drifted across the room to Sutton—surrounded by volunteers, giving instructions, flipping pages on her clipboard, not looking at him. He felt that punch of wanting and she, apparently, wanted to stop being so damn aware of every time it happened.
Boone followed his gaze and sighed. “You look like a Labradoodle that saw its owner drive away. You okay?”
“No.” Colter cleared his throat. “Yes. Hell, I don’t know.”
Boone nudged him with an elbow. “Look. She’s been through real shit. You know that. She’s not the type to gamble her kid’s stability on some horny cowboy with a savior complex.”
“I don’t have a savior complex.”
“Your job is literally to collect strays and save lives.”
“Okay, maybe I am,” Colter conceded.
“You want her.”
“Fuck yeah, I do.”
“You want the kid, too.”
Colter didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Boone clapped his shoulder. “Then stop sulking about the one-night-stand label and prove otherwise. Show up, be consistent, and try not to scare her.”
“Great pep talk.”
“You’re welcome. I’m basically Dr. Phil with better bone structure.”
“Please don’t ever say that again.”
Boone laughed and stepped back. “I mean it. Don’t be an idiot. And don’t make her regret trusting you with her body or her kid.”
“I won’t.”
Boone nodded once—approval disguised as indifference. “Good. Now finish that damn banner before Maribelle decides to bury us under her entitlement.”
Colter pressed the last edge of tape onto the cinderblock wall and stepped back. The banner hung mostly straight—good enough that Maribelle might spare him execution. He’d barely had a second to breathe when he heard the familiar throat-clear of an oncoming lecture.
Dr. Porter—veterinarian emeritus, retired in title but not in spirit—stood beside him, with his brows bunched and his lips flattened into a line that usually preceded a ten-minute sermon on professional malpractice.
“Callahan,” Porter began, voice low and blistering. “Tell me you did not sign off on this.”
And here we go.
“Afternoon to you too, Doc.”
Porter ignored the pleasantry. “I leave for one retirement cruise—one—and I come back to find you letting civilians run behavioral experiments with traumatized dogs.”
Colter blinked. “What?”
Porter jabbed a flyer at him like it was a court summons. “Your new intern has apparently invited prospective adopters to sit in a room and allow the dogs to choose their owners. Choose, Colter.”
This was news. Interesting, but news all the same.
Colter raised a brow. “And what exactly is the problem?”
Porter sputtered, as if the question itself were offensive. “It’s chaos. Unstructured. Uncontrolled. Liability-laden chaos. We observe canine temperament. We don’t give them free rein to assign mortgages, station wagons, and college funds.”
Colter bit back a grin.
“So walk me through it,” he said, because Porter needed the outlet.
Porter huffed into a spiel. “She wants potential adopters to sit quietly in a room. No touching or coaxing. The dogs are just brought in—one at a time—and allowed to investigate. The theory is that a dog will gravitate toward the human whose energy matches theirs. Trauma-bonding through passive selection.”
“That’s actually smart.”
Porter threw up his hands. “It’s also untested and ripe for disaster. Some of these dogs have anxiety or food insecurity. Some resource-guard. What happens if a shepherd decides to ‘gravitate’ at seventy miles an hour into a four-year-old?”
“That’s a bit extreme and not an issue if the prospective adoptees are sitting, like you said. Plus, she’s putting the dogs first. Letting them dictate their comfortable space, and choose their own safety and preference.”
Porter narrowed his eyes. “You approve?”
“Hell yeah, I approve,” Colter said. “Letting a dog choose its person? That might cut returns in half. Maybe more.”
Porter tried to hold onto indignation, but his jaw worked. He hated good ideas that weren’t his.
Colter pressed gently, “And you know damn well some dogs don’t respond to traditional matching. They shut down under pressure. But give them autonomy?” He shrugged. “That’s giving them dignity.”
Porter stared at him. Not angry now—just begrudgingly impressed.
“I trained you too well,” he muttered.
“Or she’s just that good.”
Porter grumbled into his notes, but the faintest smile betrayed him. “Fine. I’ll supervise but if bedlam ensues—”
Colter cut him off. “Maribelle will handle the bodies. We’ll be fine.”
“Smart-ass.”
Colter glanced toward Sutton again—paint-splattered jeans, a fitted tank top that would've made a lesser man forget his own name, and the kind of trendy white sneakers only someone under twenty-five would wear.
That detail used to do something to him—remind him of all the reasons this was complicated, all the what-ifs she threw at him every time things got close to honest. It didn't do that anymore.
Somewhere between the Harvey farm and a waiting room full of stuffed animals, the what-ifs had lost their jurisdiction.