"Why are you burning down your barn?" she asks, unamused.
"Baby, that’s not our barn," Rogue says, his voice smooth as the whiskey bottle in his hand.
Her gaze flickers from me to Rogue and back again. "Then whose barn is it?"
None of us move for a minute. The fire continues its ravenous consumption, the smoke tendrils above it curl into the sky, the ash color almost blending into the darkness of the night.
"Someone stole our trailer," I drawl, nodding toward the flames. "The owners of that barn."
Sawyer's laugh is sharp and humorless. "So you're burning it down? You're committingarson? I’m an accomplice to a criminal offense?"
"Sweetie," Winnie chimes in from behind me, making me realize she’s probably been watching this battle between Sawyer and I. "We got one cop in town, and he's standing right behind you."
"Hey," Sheriff Dawson, our town's only police officer, and a close friend of mine, speaks up. “I'm off duty," he jokes. "And we all know how around here, whatever happens between the Stetsons and the Kennedys is between them."
"Where the hell am I?" Sawyer sighs before turning to face the burning barn again.
"Darlin', you ain't seen nothing yet," I say with a half-smile.
"Well, she's stunning. New girl in town?" Winnie whispers, leaning back against me.
"Knox's sister. Not sure how long she’s in town," I say, putting my arm around her shoulders.
"This should be interesting," Winnie muses, focused back on the flames.
The barn finally sags and collapses. I should be paying attention to what’s goin’ on around me like everyone else, but I can’t. My gaze keeps finding the blonde in heels. The one I shouldn’t want, the one I can’t seem to look away from. For some damn reason, she’s got me off balance.
eight
Sawyer
The incessant buzz in my back pocket is almost as annoying as if there was a hornet trapped in there. I press ignore for what feels like the thirty-second time today and shove the phone back down, ignoring Harrison. He says he misses me, wants to change, as if that could just fix everything. But when it comes to him, all I feel is numb. Not sad, not angry—just numb.
I sink onto a rough tree stump next to a small pile of wood that’s been set on fire, the heat currently warming my shins. The flames are still devouring what’s left of the old barn in the distance, and everyone around me treats it like it’s Saturday night entertainment. Laughter crackles louder than the blaze, the orange glow flickering across flushed faces and tipped beer cans. Even Sheriff Dawson looks more amused than concerned.
Someone passed out s’mores supplies twenty minutes ago—because naturally, when a barn burns down, this crowd roasts marshmallows.
I jab mine into the fire then wave it around, watching it blacken almost instantly. Whatever. Feels fitting.
"Darlin’," a voice drawls from behind me, "what you’re doin’ to that marshmallow has got to be a felony in at least thirteen states."
I glance up as Charming drops onto the stump beside me, grinning like he's the security for Marshmallow Justice.
“Pretty sure the actual felony is the barn you’re all burning down,” I shoot back.
He shrugs. “Fair. But your technique’s still offensive.”
I glance at the blackened lump on the end of my stick and sigh. “I like them burnt.”
“You lit it up and then waved it around like you were signaling a rescue plane.” He grins, plucking the stick from my hand and tossing the charred blob into the grass.
I can’t help but smile. There’s something about him that draws you in—easy, magnetic, golden retriever cowboy energy in human form. The complete opposite of his brother. The one I shall not name, who might be more jerk than he is cowboy.
Charming carefully skewers a fresh marshmallow and holds it just above the flame. “Patience and just the right distance,” he says, “is how you get it all golden and gooey. Think of it like foreplay for s’mores.”
I nearly snort my drink. “That’s the metaphor you’re going with?”
He shrugs, completely serious. “I don’t make the rules. I just toast the marshmallows.”
