I step forward before I can stop myself, drawn like she’s got her own gravitational pull. “Thompson hands on McCoy property,” I mutter, more out of habit than any real conviction. “Pretty sure that’s against the rules.”
Callie looks up at me, her face flushed and her hair falling out of its ponytail, dark strands framing her face in a way that makes my fingers itch to tuck them behind her ear. “Pretty sure your goat-wrestling skills aren’t covered in the family feud handbook either, but here we are.”
She’s got a point, not that I’m about to admit it. The so-called rules of this family feud have never made much sense to me, but they’re rules nonetheless, and rules my brothers and I never break. Stay away from Thompsons.Don’t speak to Thompsons. Definitely don’t help Thompsons with their livestock problems. And absolutely, under no circumstances, ever notice how their daughter looks in tight jeans.
Except, here I am, crouched down next to her, working to untangle them both from Boone’s belt while trying to ignore how close Callie is. She smells like something warm and female that makes my blood run hot. When she shifts to give me better access to the belt, her shoulder brushes mine, and the contact sends electricity straight through me.
“Hold her steady,” I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than intended, like I’ve been gargling gravel.
“I’m trying. She’s stronger than she looks.”
“Most troublemakers are.” The words come out before I can stop them, and when she turns to look at me, we’re close enough that I can count the freckles across her nose.
Callie shoots me a look, her lips parting slightly. “Are we talking about the goat or something else?”
I don’t answer that. Can’t answer that, because the truth is I’m not sure. All I know is that her mouth is right there, pink and slightly chapped from her biting it, and I’m having thoughts about a Thompson that would get me disowned.
Rita stops struggling long enough for me to work the belt free, my fingers brushing Callie’s as we both reach for it. She jerks back like she’s been burned, and the flash of awareness in her eyes tells me she felt it too, whatever this electric current is between us.
“There,” I say, standing up too quickly and brushingdirt off my jeans, needing distance before I do something stupid like pull her against me. “Crisis averted.”
“Until the next one,” Callie sighs, and when she stands, she’s close enough that I catch her scent again. “Rita’s got a talent for disasters.”
“Must run in the family,” I say without thinking, immediately wanting to take it back when hurt flashes across her face.
The words hang in the air between us, and I immediately regret them. Not because they’re untrue, after all, Callie Thompson is definitely a disaster waiting to happen, but because the kind of disaster she represents has nothing to do with goats and everything to do with how badly I want to press her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
Her eyes narrow, and that smart mouth of hers opens, probably to deliver another comeback that’ll make Jesse laugh and Boone snort. But all I can focus on is her lips, the way her chest rises and falls with indignation, the fire in her eyes that makes me want to stoke it higher.
The goat situationshould have ended there. Should have been a simple case of returning stolen property and sending Callie on her way. But I can’t help watching her walk, the sway of her hips, the determined set of her shoulders. My hands are still tingling from where our fingers brushed, and I’m furious at myself for noticing.
But my brother Jesse’s never been one to let sleeping dogs lie. Or sleeping goats, in this case. Or Thompsongirls who make the blood run hot just by existing in the same space.
“Here,” he says before Callie’s gotten far. He pulls a spare halter from the fence post. “This’ll work better than whatever makeshift leash you’ve got there.”
She turns back, and the late afternoon sun hits her face just right. My jaw clenches. I need to stop cataloguing every detail about her—the way she tucks that one stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, how her tank top is slightly damp with sweat and clinging in ways that are going to haunt my dreams.
Jesse holds out the halter, but instead of handing it over, waits for her to reach for it. Fucker. I see his game immediately, and something violent rises in my chest. When she reaches forward, he shifts his grip so his fingers deliberately brush hers.
Asshole.
The contact lasts maybe three seconds. Three seconds where I watch her pupils dilate, watch the pulse jump in her throat, watch her lips part slightly in surprise. Three seconds that feel like three hours while something primitive and possessive roars to life inside me. That should be my hand touching hers. My fingers making her breath catch.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Callie jerks her hand back like she’s been burned, and the flush spreading down her neck makes me wonder how far it goes. Will it reach her chest? Will it… Christ, I need to stop this crap.
“Relax,” Jesse says, his voice dropping to that tone he uses when he’s hunting. “I’m not contagious.”
Boone’s grin widens. “Dude, I don’t think that’s true about herpes...”
Jesse’s gaze snaps in Boone’s direction and for a moment, I think he might actually commit fratricide. I can relate because I want to kill Jesse, myself. Want to grab him by the throat and tell him to back the hell off, that he doesn’t get to touch her, doesn’t get to make her blush like that.
“I do not have—” Jesse starts to say.
Callie’s snort shuts us all up. The sound shouldn’t be attractive, but somehow on her it is. Everything she does is attractive, and that’s the problem. The way she’s fighting not to smile, the way she’s trying to look unaffected when I can see her hands trembling slightly.
Jesse’s always been a flirt, always been the one to charm his way out of trouble or into whatever he wants. But this is different. This is Jesse going after something he shouldn’t want, something that could destroy everything. And the worst part? I want it too.
