“It’s nothing,” Dad says firmly. “Because my daughter knows better than to get involved with a McCoy.”
He looks at me pointedly when he says it, and my cheeks burn.
“Of course I do,” I say through gritted teeth. “I wouldn’t touch a McCoy with a ten-foot pole.”
“Even if he was really, really good-looking?” Mrs. Delaney asks with a sly grin.
“Especiallythen,” I lie.
But even as I say it, I can’t stop thinking about Wyatt’s eyes, Jesse’s crooked grin, and the way Boone’s face lit upwhen he laughed. Which is exactly the kind of thing that’s going to get me in trouble.
“Good,” Dad says, satisfied. “Because the last thing this family needs is more drama with the McCoys.”
Mrs. Delaney looks disappointed, but she’s still typing on her phone. “Well, if anything changes, you know where to find me. I’m always happy to document young romance for posterity.”
“There won’t be any romance to document,” I say firmly.
“If you say so, dear.” But her tone suggests she thinks I’m either lying or delusional.
As we walk toward the truck, I can hear people whispering as we pass. Phones are coming out. Cameras are pointing in our direction. By tonight, half the county will have seen Mrs. Delaney’s video of me face-planting into three cowboys.
“What a mess,” I mutter.
“It’s fixable,” Dad says. “As long as you stay away from those boys.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about the way Wyatt looked at me right before he walked away, and the way Jesse called me “trouble” like it was a compliment, and the way Boone’s laugh made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Zero cowboy contact,” I say under my breath as I load Rita into the back of the truck. “That’s the plan. Zero contact, zero drama, zero complications.”
Rita bleats skeptically, Boone’s belt still hanging from her mouth.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. “I mean it.”
But even as I say it, I have the sinking feeling that Rita and I both know I’m lying.
The McCoy boys are trouble. Capital T, heartbreak-waiting-to-happen, family-feud-reigniting trouble.
And I absolutely, definitely, completely do not want anything to do with them.
Absolutely.
Definitely.
Completely.
2
WYATT
I should have walked awaythe minute I saw that Thompson girl struggling with her goat behind our barns. Should have turned around and minded my own business instead of standing here watching her fight with a stubborn animal and a stolen belt that we’d fully surrendered earlier at the county fair.
But here I am anyway, watching Callie Thompson wrestle with Rita, something she seems to spend a lot of time doing. She’s managed to get Boone’s belt wrapped around her legs, and the leather against her jeans is doing things to my concentration I don’t want to acknowledge. The goat’s bleating indignantly, Callie’s cursing under her breath, something about “demonic animals” and “why can’t you be normal.” The way she bites her lower lip in frustration has me gripping the fence post harder than necessary.
Christ. I need to look away. But she drops to her knees to work the belt free, and her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin at her lower back that makes my mouth go dry. This is ridiculous. She’s Hank Thompson’s daughter. Off-limits. Enemy territory. But when she pushes her hair back from her face, frustrated and flushed, something hot coils in my gut that has nothing to do with family feuds.
“Need some help there?” Jesse calls out, that trademark smirk already spreading across his face. I watch him watch her, see the way his eyes track down her body, and something dark and possessive rises in my chest that I have no right to feel.
“I’ve got it,” Callie snaps, but she clearly doesn’t. Rita has somehow managed to tangle herself even worse, and now, the belt is twisted around one of the fence posts too. When she stretches to reach it, her tank top pulls tight across her chest, and I have to force myself to look at the barn, the sky, anywhere but the curve of her waist.
