“You’re not?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “We’ve been over this.”
Delaney watches the two of them, shoulders curling in, bracing for impact. But it’s not fight or flight I see in her face.
It’s want.
The way her gaze hangs on Boone’s forearms as he shrugs off his jacket. The way her smile tilts a little when Caleb takes the seat opposite her, careful not to jostle her. The way something warm and frightened flickers in her eyes when they both ask, at almost the same time, “You okay?”
Yeah.
She’s not just drawn to me.
That tracks.
I hand Caleb a plate and clap a hand on his shoulder. “Eat, cowboy. Then you can go back to pretending you’re not still sick.”
He mutters a word that sounds similar to “bossy” under his breath, but he digs in.
The four of us sit there in a strange little almost family breakfast. Boone pretending not to watch Delaney. Caleb pretending not to watch Delaney. Delaney pretending not to be aware of both of them watching her.
And me?
I watch all of them.
Noticing how Boone’s hand tightens around his mug when she laughs. How Caleb leans in subconsciously when she talks about the menu for dinner. He wants to be closer to the sound of her voice. How her gaze flits between them. A ping pong ball she’s desperately trying to swat out of the air.
Yeah.
This is going to be fun.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
But fun.
After breakfast, I escape to the office over the barn under the guise of invoices and emails. Which I do tackle, to be fair. For about ten minutes.
Then I swivel my chair around, prop my boots up on the desk, and open my notebook.
Across the top of a blank page, I scrawl:
COYOTE CUP KICKOFF @ SUNRIDGE – MASTER PLAN
The Coyote Cup Showdown is the kind of ridiculous small-town tradition I live for. Intertown cornhole league, trash talk that would make sailors blush, half the town using it as an excuse to drink beer and scream at weighted beanbags as if they’re gladiators.
In other words: marketing gold.
We hosted an end-of-season party last year, and people are still talking about it. This time, I want opening night. Big. Loud. Unforgettable.
Also, conveniently, a perfect excuse to cram a certain chef and three idiots with feelings into the same space with music, alcohol, and plausible deniability.
I tap my pen against my bottom lip, grinning.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself. “Let’s stir some shit up.”
Bullet points:
