“Wow, starting with the double entendres already? It’s so early.”
“Never too early.” He pulls me inside before I can respond, kicking the door shut behind us. “Also, you’re wearing my favorite shorts.”
“These are my only shorts that still fit after all the stress eating I’ve been doing.”
“Stress eating?” His hands are already on my hips, thumbs sliding under the waistband. “What stress?”
“Oh, you know. Family drama, town scandal, three cowboys who think sending thirsty texts at dawn is acceptable behavior.”
“You responded,” he points out, backing me against the wall.
“Moment of weakness.”
“Bullshit. You wanted to come over here as much as we wanted you to.”
His mouth finds mine before I can argue, and any witty comeback dies on my tongue. He kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, all heat and demand and the kind of confidence that should be annoying but instead makes my knees weak.
“Where are your brothers?” I manage when we come up for air.
“Kitchen. Attempting breakfast. There’s been one small fire already.”
“At six in the morning?”
“We’re early risers.” His grin turns wicked. “In multiple ways.”
“That’s a terrible joke. Like, genuinely awful. Are you twelve years old?”
“Twelve inches, maybe.”
“Jesse McCoy, that is the worst?—”
He shuts me up by kissing me again, and this time, I don’t bother protesting. His hands are under my shirt, mine are in his hair, and we’re about thirty secondsfrom public indecency when someone clears their throat.
“Jesse, stop molesting our guest,” Wyatt says from the doorway. “At least let her get properly inside first.”
I peek around Jesse to see Wyatt leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug, looking like he stepped out of a hot cowboys annual calendar. His dark hair’s damp from a shower, and he’s wearing jeans and nothing else, which, to be honest, is killing me.
Behind him, Boone is wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Cook” and pancake batter in his hair.
“Breakfast is a disaster, by the way,” Boone announces cheerfully. “But we have coffee. And bacon. Slightly carbonized bacon, but bacon nonetheless.”
“I’m not here for breakfast,” I say, then realize how that sounds. Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean?—”
“We know what you’re here for,” Wyatt says, his eyes doing that thing where they go dark and intense. “Question is, are you sure you want it?”
I push Jesse aside and walk straight up to Wyatt, getting close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Do I look unsure to you?”
He studies my face for a long moment, taking in the hickeys, the messy hair, and the general air of someone who’s throwing caution to the wind.
“You look pretty certain, actually,” he says.
“Damn right I do.”
“Our kind of certain,” Boone adds, pulling me into the kitchen. “The best kind of certain. The kind that makes life interesting.”
The kitchen looks like a bomb went off. A breakfast bomb. There’s flour on every surface, something burning on the stove that might have been edible at one time. Even the ceiling has a blob of pancake batter on it.
