A choked laugh breaks from his chest. His grin expands.
"I'm out," Sebastian mutters. He moves toward the door.
"Fun's over. Me too," Alexander adds, following him.
I rise on my tiptoes, pressing my fingertips behind Wyatt's neck, and kiss him like we're alone.
"Gross," Mason grumbles.
I ignore him.
"Okay. Enough," Jagger spouts.
I continue to kiss Wyatt as he tries to pull away, then I retreat. A tad out of breath, I spin to face Jagger. In a firm tone, I assert, "Don't be stupid and let this ruin your friendship. Wyatt's not the only one to blame. And I won't have you disrespecting my man."
Jagger wrinkles his nose.
Mason pushes off the stall door. He grabs the pitchfork. "Jesus, Willow. You don't need to be so dramatic, but you made your point. Just stop kissing him in front of me."
I don't move.
He turns toward Jagger. "Are you planning to stand around, or are we getting this barn done before the next ice age?"
Jagger shakes his head, muttering curses I can barely hear, then grabs a shovel and moves to the next stall.
The four of us fall into a rhythm. The barn echoes with the sounds of metal scraping on wood, the dull thump of manure hitting the wheelbarrow, and the occasional neigh of a restless horse. It reminds me of the time when Wyatt and I had barn duty after he pretended to lose to Ava while skipping stones.
I catch Wyatt glancing at me every time we pass each other in the narrow aisle. His dark eyes soften, a flicker of heat smoldering under the exhaustion of working on little sleep. He brushes my hip once when we maneuver around the same wheelbarrow, and it sends a jolt through me that I can't hide.
"Damn it," Jagger mutters, slamming his pitchfork into a pile with a little too much force, causing straw to fly everywhere.
I arch an eyebrow. "Problem, big brother?"
He glares at me, cheeks red, then at Wyatt. "You really think this is going to work? You two?"
Wyatt straightens, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, eyes locked on Jagger. "It's not even a question. I told you before, and I'll tell you again. I love her."
A hushed standoff ensues, the two men staring one another down.
I grip my pitchfork so hard, my knuckles crack. My pulse rises again.
Wyatt adds, voice hard as granite, "I'm not losing again what I stupidly lost once before. So either get over it or keep throwing your shit with the horses'."
Mason lets out a low whistle.
Jagger's jaw tics. Then he shakes his head and scoffs. "Fine. But if you fuck this up, I'll break every bone in your body."
Wyatt grows serious. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Jagger jabs his pitchfork into another pile.
We work through the stalls in tense, stubborn silence that eventually fades into something familiar. My brothers start to banter again, insulting each other about who smells worse or who's more incompetent with a pitchfork. Slowly, they include Wyatt in the conversation.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, catching my breath. Wyatt leans on his shovel, watching me with dark eyes that flicker with pride and relief. He teases, "Nice form. Have you ever thought about joining the rodeo shit-shoveling team?"
A warmth curls inside me. I roll my eyes, but a grin tugs at my lips. "Says the man who's missed his target twice already."
Mason groans. "Oh God. Here we go again. More flirting."
