“My goodness,” I say, surveying the damage. “What happened?”
“Boone happened,” Jesse says, sliding his arms around me from behind. “He has this effect on kitchens. It’s like they sense his presence and go on strike rather than submit to his cooking.”
“I’m experimenting with technique,” Boone defends himself, spatula in hand like a weapon.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Wyatt asks, rescuing what’s left of the bacon from its charcoal fate.
“By the way,” I say, looking around the chaos, “where’s your dad?”
“Cattle auction other side of the state,” Jesse murmurs against my neck, his breath making me shiver. “Won’t be back for a few days.”
“How convenient.”
“Very,” Wyatt agrees, setting a plate of salvageable bacon on the table. “Almost like we planned it.”
“Did you?”
“Would you be impressed if we did?” Boone asks, finally giving up on whatever he’s attempting to cook and turning off the stove.
“I’d be impressed if you could make toast without requiring a fire extinguisher.”
Despite the kitchenlooking like a flour factory exploded, the guys manage to produce actual, edible food. Jesse’s pancakes are golden and perfect, because the universe decided he needed to be good at everything. Boone’s bacon is a testament to char, crispy on one side, raw on the other, achieving that rare state of being both overcooked and undercooked at the same time. And Wyatt’s scrambled eggs are, predictably, flawless.
“These pancakes are offensive,” I tell Jesse, drowning my stack in butter and syrup.
“Offensive?” Jesse asks
“Too good. You’re already hot, annoyingly confident, and allegedly good in bed. You don’t get to also be competent at cooking. Pick a struggle.”
“Allegedly good in bed?” He raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure we moved past alleged around the third time you screamed my name last night.”
“I have an enthusiastic personality.”
“You have a naturally loud personality,” Wyatt corrects, sitting down across from me with his own plate. “The neighbors are a mile away and you nearly woke them.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“That’s being conservative,” Boone chimes in, sliding into the seat next to me. “Pretty sure dogs in the next county were howling in response.”
I steal a piece of Jesse’s bacon since mine looks is no doubt carcinogenic. “You three are terrible for my ego.”
“Your ego’s fine,” Jesse says. “Remember when you were twelve and keyed Wyatt’s truck?”
“That was never proven in a court of law.”
“You literally signed your name,” Wyatt points out.
“Allegedly signed.”
“You wrote ‘Callie Thompson was here, suck it McCoys’ in your perfect penmanship.”
“Could’ve been anyone named Callie Thompson.”
“You’re the only Callie Thompson in three counties.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
Boone chokes on his coffee, laughing. “God, you were such a little shit. Remember when she put sugar in our gas tanks?”
