“I’m grumpy when Thompsons are involved,” I say, standing up too quickly, hiding how affected I am.
“Funny,” Callie says, and her gaze travels down my body slowly, lingering on the obvious problem I’m having underneath the fly of my blue jeans. “I’m the same way with McCoys. They make me very... grumpy.”
The way she says “grumpy” makes it clear we’re not talking about grumpiness anymore.
I fix her with my hardest stare, trying to ignore the heat in her eyes. “Then why are you still standing here?”
It’s a challenge, and we both know it. I’m waiting for her to back down, to walk away, to prove that she’s smart enough to stay away from trouble.
Instead, she crosses her arms, which only pushes her breasts up, and lifts that stubborn chin of hers.
“Because,” she says, taking a step closer to me, close enough that I catch her scent, “someone needs to make sure you don’t hurt yourselves. You’re clearly not qualified to handle basic lifting. Or other basic things.”
“What other basic things?” My voice comes out low, dangerous.
“Self-control comes to mind.” Her gaze drops pointedlyto my jeans, where I’m failing spectacularly at self-control.
Boone bursts out laughing, breaking the tension. “I like her,” he announces. “She’s funny. And observant. Balls out.”
“Bad news,” I say again, but my voice is rough.
“The best kind,” Jesse adds with a wink, his hand brushing Callie’s hip as he moves past her.
She jumps at the contact, a small gasp escaping her lips that goes straight to my already painful situation.
From her truck, Rita lets out a loud bleat, as if she’s adding her own commentary.
“Hey, your goat agrees,” Boone says, grinning.
“Rita has excellent judgment,” Callie says, but her voice is shaky as she loads the last bag into her cart.
“About some things,” I mutter, watching the way her muscles flex with the movement.
She pushes her cart toward her truck, and Jesse falls into step beside her. I follow at a distance, trying not to stare at the sway of her hips. And failing miserably.
“Think about breakfast,” I hear Jesse say, his hand ghosting over the small of her back. “I know a place that serves coffee strong enough to wake the dead. And the booth seats are very private.”
“I’ll think about it,” she replies, but her voice is breathless, and when she glances back at me over her shoulder, the heat in her eyes makes me take a step forward before I catch myself.
Bad news, that’s what all of this is.
3
CALLIE
I’m loadingthe last bag of feed into my cart, trying to ignore Jesse, who’s leaning against my cart with that sexy, practiced pose that probably works on every other woman in Cedar Ridge. The way his jeans sit low on his hips, the casual confidence in how he takes up space. It’s not fair, dammit.
But he’s not getting to me. Definitely not me. Even if his forearms look ridiculously good with his sleeves rolled up like that.
“So,” he says, and his voice has this low rumble that makes my stomach flip, “tell me about Rita’s diet.”
I pause, a twenty-five-pound bag halfway into my truck. “Her diet?”
“Yeah. What do you feed her? I’m thinking about getting a goat myself.”
The lie is so obvious, I laugh. Jesse McCoygetting a goat is about as likely as me joining a nunnery. Although the way his eyes track down my body when he thinks I’m not looking suggests neither of us is cut out for religious life.
“You’re not getting a goat,” I say flatly, trying to ignore how my skin heats under his gaze.
