“We need to get out of here,” Wyatt corrects, grabbing his toolbox, back in practical mode despite the bulge in his jeans that was pressing against my leg.
“Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here,” Jesse adds, looking around for another exit while adjusting himself.
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
“There’s no other way out,” I tell them, straightening my clothes with shaking hands.
“Then we wait for her to stop,” Boone suggests, but his voice is rough, distracted, his eyes still on me.
But Rita doesn’t stop. If anything, she gets louder, adding angry bleating to the percussion section. It sounds like she’s trying to knock the barn down.
“Okay, new plan,” I say, trying to think through the haze of hormones. “You three stay here. I’ll go deal with Rita and get her back in her pen. Once the coast is clear, you can sneak out.”
“We’re not leaving you to handle this alone,” Wyatt says firmly.
“It’s my goat and my problem.”
“It’s our problem now,” Jesse says, and there’s something possessive in his tone that makes my stomach flip.
“Since when?”
“Since about five minutes ago when you let all three of us kiss you.”
The reminder of what just happened makes heat flood my face. “That was?—”
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. An especially angry bleat.
“Rita’s persistent,” I say, grateful for the distraction from thinking about how I just kissed three brothers. How I want to do it again.
“Like her owner,” Wyatt mutters.
“I heard that.”
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
Then, the worst happens: the front porch light coming on.
“My dad,” I breathe, my blood turning to ice.
We look at each other in the dim light, and I can see the same thought on all their faces: We are so screwed.
“Out the door, now,” Wyatt commands, taking charge. “We’ll deal with the goat.”
“But Dad?—”
“Would you rather explain why you’re in the barn atmidnight looking thoroughly kissed, or why your goat is having a tantrum?”
He has a point. My lips are swollen, my clothes are disheveled, and I probably look exactly like what I am, a girl who’s been making out with three guys in a barn.
Jesse cracks the door open, and Rita immediately tries to push her way in, bleating indignantly.
“Hey, girl,” I say, grabbing her collar. “Thanks for throwing me under the bus.”
She looks at me with those knowing eyes, then at the three McCoy brothers emerging from the barn, and lets out a bleat that sounds suspiciously like judgment.
“Don’t you start,” I tell her.
“Callie?” Dad’s voice carries across the yard. “What’s going on out there?”
