Callie Thompson walks through the front door of the bar like she owns the place, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and wearing a ruffled blue dress that makes every man in the bar turn and stare. She’s with her friends—Sarah from the bank and Katie from the diner—but she might as well be alone for all the attention I’m paying to anyone else.
“Well, shit,” Jesse mutters, following my gaze.
“What?” Wyatt asks, then spots Callie and goes silent.
She’s laughing at something Sarah said, her head thrown back and her face lit up. There’s something about her when she laughs that makes the whole room seem brighter, like someone just turned up the lights.
“We should leave,” Wyatt says, but he doesn’t move from the booth.
“We should definitely leave,” Jesse agrees, also not moving.
“We’re not leaving,” I say, standing up. “We were here first.”
“Boone,” Wyatt warns.
“What? I’m just going to say hi. Be neighborly.”
“You’re going to make trouble.”
“I’m always making trouble. That’s my super power as the youngest McCoy brother.”
“That’s your problem,” Wyatt corrects.
But I’m already walking toward her, weaving through the crowd of Friday night drinkers and weekend warriors. The band’s setting up on the small stage in the corner, tuning guitars and testing microphones with the kind of shrieking feedback that busts your eardrums.
Callie’s standing at the bar now, waiting for drinks,and hasn’t noticed us yet. I sidle up next to her, close enough to smell her perfume over the bar smell of beer and peanuts.
“Evening, Callie,” I say, leaning against the bar.
She turns, and for a second, I see something that might be relief in her eyes before her guard clicks into place.
“So. Fancy seeing you here,” she says, her lips pressed together hard.
“It’s Friday night. Where else would we be?”
“I don’t know. Home? Practicing your three-legged-race technique? Learning how to make decent chili?”
“Already perfected the three-legged-race technique. And our chili is already damn good.”
“No beans. Yuck,” she sniffs.
“Okay, miss chili expert.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s fighting a smile. “You’re modest, too.”
“Modesty’s overrated.”
The bartender sets down three beers for Callie and her friends, and she reaches for her wallet. But I beat her to it, tossing a few bills on the bar.
“I can buy my own drinks,” she says.
“I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just being friendly.”
“Since when are McCoys friendly to Thompsons?”
