“It’s called flirting.”
“It’s called making an ass of yourself in front of fifty people.”
“Sixty,” Boone corrects, doing a quick head count. “Plus, whoever’s watching the livestream. There is a livestream, right?” He checks his phone.
The trail ride officially starts, and we fall in with the crowd heading into the canyon. The Thompsons stay clustered at the front, Callie surrounded by ranch hands who look ready to form a human shield if any McCoy gets within ten feet.
“This is out of control,” Jesse complains after the first mile. “We’ve been… naked with her. And now we can’t even say hi?”
“Pretty much,” I confirm.
“That’s backwards.”
“That’s Cedar Ridge.”
We ride in frustrated silence for a while. The canyon is showing off today, all red rock walls catching the morning light, cottonwoods turning gold along the creek, water running clear and cold over smooth stones. The kind of scenery that should make everything better but doesn’t because Callie’s fifty yards ahead and acting like she doesn’t know us.
What the fuck?
“Remember last Tuesday?” Boone says suddenly. “In the barn? When she did that thing with her?—”
“We remember,” I cut him off, because I definitely remember and don’t need the visual right now, not while riding a horse.
“I’m just saying, how does someone go from that to this in a week?”
“Fear,” Jesse says. “Pure, Thompson-branded fear.”
“Maybe she came to her senses,” I suggest. “Realized three McCoys was two and a half too many.”
“Bullshit. She loved it. Loved us.”
“She lovedfuckingus,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?” Boone asks. “Because the way she looked that night, the way she said our names?—”
“Still just sex,” I say, because someone needs to be realistic here. “Good sex. Great sex. But sex nonetheless.”
Jesse turns in his saddle to look at me. “You don’t believe that.”
I don’t, but admitting it means admitting we lost something real, not just a convenient arrangement. And that hurts worse.
At the lunch stop,everyone dismounts near a grove of cottonwoods by the creek. The volunteers have set up tables with barbecue that looks incredible and homemade beans that definitely come from someone’s old family recipe. People spread out in carefully maintained groups with Thompsons here, McCoys there, and everyone else scattered about trying not to take sides.
Callie’s momentarily alone. Her father’s arguing with the trail boss about something that requires a lot of hand gestures and raised voices. Her bodyguards have wandered off to get food, probably figuring she’s safe for thirty seconds. She is not.
I shouldn’t go to her. Should respect the distance she’s created, the clear “fuck off” energy she’s been projecting all morning.
But I’m already walking toward her because I might bea masochist who likes rejection with a side of public humiliation.
She’s standing by the creek, watching the water with the focus of someone trying very hard not to notice someone approaching.
“Callie.”
She doesn’t turn around. “Wyatt.”
“We need to talk.”
“Not right now.”
