“The way you jumped to defend her says otherwise. Plus, you’re still hard.”
I grab a throw pillow and adjust it on my lap as I sit in the armchair. “I’m not?—”
“Please. We all are. Girl’s got that effect.”
“I was stating a fact.”
“Uh-huh.” Jesse’s grin widens. “And the way you looked at her ass when she walked away? Also just stating facts?”
I get up to grab a beer and twist off the cap harder than necessary, using the cold bottle as an excuse to cool down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t. Just like you don’t know why you need that pillow on your lap right now.”
Boone walks in, still carrying his belt. “I’m keeping this,” he announces. “Conversation starter.”
“With who?” Jesse asks.
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll have a story to tell. Maybe about the day we all got hot and bothered by Callie Thompson.”
“Nobody got hot and bothered,” I lie.
“Right. That’s why you’re death-gripping that beer bottle like it’s the only thing keeping you from grabbing your dick right here and now.”
I look down and realize he’s right.
“I’m going to check the fence line,” I announce, heading for the door.
“Need help?” Boone asks.
“No.”
I need space. I need air. I need to stop thinking about her eyes and sharp tongue and the way Callie Thompson’s body moved when she wrestled with that goat. Need to stop imagining her moving like that beneath me, on top of me, against me.
But even out in the pasture, surrounded by nothing but cattle and sky, I can’t shake the memory of her. Can’t stop replaying the moment our fingers touched, the way her breath hitched, the heat in her eyes.
Can’t shake the feeling that something changed today.
Something that’s going to make staying away from her a hell of a lot tougher than it should be.
I wake up hard,aching, and frustrated from dreams about the way Callie’s tank top clung to her curves yesterday. Dreams where I found out exactly how flexible she is, and where her sharp comebacks turned into my name gasped against my ear.
I take care of it in the shower, stroking myself until I explode. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Fuck.
We need feed, and Millerton’s is the closest store, so there’s no avoiding the possibility of seeing her. I tell myself it’s just a routine supply run, nothing more.
I don’t tell myself why I spend an extra few minutes in the mirror or why I grab a clean shirt instead of the one I wore yesterday. The black one that fits tighter across my chest. The one Jesse calls my “trying to get laid” shirt.
Jesse and Boone are already loading up when I get to the truck.
“You look nice,” Jesse says with a knowing grin that I hate. “Special occasion?”
“Feed run.”
“In your fuck-me shirt?”
“It’s just a shirt.”
