Jesse laughs. “Oh shit, she’s got you there, Wy.”
Wyatt’s scowl deepens, but I catch something that might be amusement flickering in his eyes. “Thompson women and their mouths,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?” I straighten up to my full height, chest back, chin up. No one talks trash about the Thompson women. No one.
He realizes he’s gone too far. “Nothing,” he says, backpedaling. “Just... nothing.”
Damn right.
“Well, since we’re on the subject, why don’t you enlighten me about Thompson women and our mouths?”
“I really think we should—” Boone starts to say, but Jesse cuts him off.
“What my charming brother means,” Jesse says, shooting Wyatt a warning look, “is that Thompson women are known for being... spirited.”
“Spirited.” I repeat the word slowly. “Like horses?”
“Like trouble,” Wyatt says under his breath.
“I heard that,” I snip.
“Good. Maybe you’ll face facts.”
“The only fact I’m facing is that McCoy men are just as pigheaded as their fathers.”
“And Thompson women are just as?—”
“Just as what?” I step closer, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, ready for a fight.
But Wyatt doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s looking down at me, and something shifts in his expression. For just a second, the scowl softens.
“Nothing,” he says finally. “Just... be careful with that goat.”
Before I can ask what that’s supposed to mean, he turns and walks away.
Jesse tips his hat at me with an infuriating grin. “See you around, pretty girl.”
Boone waves goodbye, belt-less, still chuckling. “Thanks for the entertainment!”
I watch them retreat, three sets of broad shoulders and long legs, and I absolutely donotnotice how well their jeans fit or how Wyatt’s dark hair curls just slightly at the nape of his neck.
Nope. Not noticing any of that.
Rita trots back over to me, Boone’s belt hanging from her mouth like a trophy. She looks pleased with herself.
“You,” I tell her, “are a terrible wingman.”
She bleats, either agreeing or disagreeing. Who knows which.
I’m tryingto coax Rita to my truck when Mrs. Delaney appears beside me like a gossip-seeking missile.
“Oh my stars!” she gasps, clutching her phone to her chest. “Callie Thompson, did you just fall into the arms of all three McCoy boys?”
“I crashed into them,” I correct, tugging Rita’s leash. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Mrs. Delaney’s eyes are practically glowing with excitement. “Because it looked mighty romantic from where I was standing. Very movie-scene, if you ask me. You know that term ‘meet-cute’? I think that was one in the making, right before our very eyes.”
“The hell,” I mutter, but she either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore it.
