“Nothing’s final until I talk to the mayor.”
“You’re not talking to the mayor,” Callie says firmly. “We’re going to do this, raise money for the community center, and act like civilized human beings.”
“Civilized,” Hank repeats, looking at me like I’m something he’d scrape off his boot. “Right.”
“Mr. Thompson,” I say, extending my hand, “I’m looking forward to working with your daughter. She seems very... spirited.”
Hank looks at my hand like it might bite him, then reluctantly shakes it with the enthusiasm of handling a dead fish.
“Just remember,” he says, his voice low enough that only we can hear, “she’s a Thompson. And Thompsons don’t back down from a fight.”
“Wouldn’t expect them to,” I reply. “McCoys don’t either.”
The handshake lasts exactly three seconds, but the tension stretches for what feels like an hour, especially when Mr. Thompson wipes his hand on his pants.
Damn.
“Well,” Callie says brightly, clearly trying to break the mood, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
“Tomorrow at Miller’s Field,” I tell her. “Ten a.m. sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” she says. “With bells on.”
“Please don’t actually wear bells,” Boone pipes up. “The goat might try to eat them.”
“Rita’s staying home,” Callie says firmly.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask.
“The fun is in not having to explain to the fire department why a goat is stuck in the donation booth.”
“Yeah, that was interesting,” Boone says.
“That was enough.”
As the crowd thins out, I find myself standing closer to Callie than I probably should. Close enough to smell her shampoo and something else that’s just plain natural girl. It’s killing me.
“You know,” I say quietly, “this might actually be fun.”
“Your definition of fun and mine are not the same,” she replies.
“How do you know? We’ve never had fun together.”
“We’ve never had anything together.”
“Exactly my point.”
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and for a second, I think I see something softer in her face. Something that might be curiosity instead of exasperation.
Then Hank clears his throat loudly, and the moment breaks.
“Tomorrow,” I say, taking a step back. “Don’t be late, pretty girl.”
“I’m never late,” she says.
“Good. I hate waiting.”
As I walk away with my brothers, I can hear Mrs. Delaney already on the phone with someone, probably half the town, sharing the exciting news about the “forced romance” situation.
