“It doesn’t mean anything.”
She hums again, as if to saybullshit.
CHAPTER 2
Wyatt
Everleigh James is sans bra.
The fucking thought shouldn’t be on repeat as I fish my dog Thor’s leash from the backseat of my patrol truck. Not if I want my half hard cock to calm the fuck down when I return to corral Birdie. And not if I want the way I feel about her to remain hidden.
I’ve been in love with Everleigh for months now, but I’ll be damned if I let that secret out in the open.
Ever since I pulled her over for a burnt-out taillight last summer and found her sobbing behind the steering wheel, she’s been closed off to just about everything under surface level—including romantic entanglements. Whatever happened in Oklahoma, it’s shaken her to the fucking core.
I’ve spent a year trying to get to the bottom of it to no avail.
But it wouldn’t matter if she’s interested in dating, because she likely wouldn’t be interested in datingme—her best friend’s older brother who she fondly refers to as a thorn in her ass. I won’t risk losing her as a friend by making some sappyconfession she might reject. Nothing is more important than keeping her close, and I refuse to put that friendship in jeopardy.
Never mind that I take a cold shower nearly every damn day—something I could use now as I can’t seem to stop picturing her pebbled nipples poking through her soft pink tank top with its deep neckline. God what I wouldn’t give to take those hardened peaks into my mouth, one at a time. To run my tongue slowly along her sensitive flesh.
Fuck, fully hard.
Focus on something else—anythingelse.
I think of the softball game later this week. We’re down a woman we’ll need on the roster in order not to forfeit. I don’t remember a text in the group chat confirming we found someone to fill in yet. I think of the Hanks brothers feuding over their property line again. I’ll have to run out there later to see if they’ve worked out their differences or if they’re still passive aggressively fighting. I think of Thor, my Great Dane, throwing up the stack of pancakes he stole whole while my back was turned, which is why I left him at home. Cleaning up upchucked pancakes in the back of my patrol truck is not something I care to do today.
And then there’s Birdie, the runaway alpaca.
There’s been an APB out on Birdie since she was spotted in town nearly an hour ago. How the hell she made it back to Emerald Creek is anyone’s guess. But I’m not surprised she ended up at Walter Smalley’s old house. It was once her home, too.
Now that I’m out of the danger zone below the belt, I return to the garage only to discover that Everleigh and Birdie are missing.
The door to the kitchen is wide open and I poke my head inside, amused by the heartwarming sight before me. The alpaca nuzzles Everleigh’s palm, humming happily. If I had to guess,Birdie’s working her way into a hug, or she’s attempting to invite herself all the way inside. Possibly both.
“Hey, no matter how irresistibly cute you are, you can’t come in any farther. Stormy will shit on my pillow for this.” She glances back at the unpacked boxes. “Well, she’d have to find it first. But trust me, she holds grudges.”
Everleigh’s deep blue gaze lifts to mine, and fuck if time doesn’t freeze. She flashes me a smile that nearly undoes me.
“I don’t think she’s going to go willingly,” she says, laughing when Birdie nuzzles her neck. At least the alpaca is hiding those hard nipples from my sightline.Good Birdie.
“I have an idea,” I say, remembering the bag of alfalfa pellets I saw in the garage yesterday while I helped move her things in. I search for where I saw it last, spotting the sack in the corner. Next to it, a soft pink case catches my eye, one the color of Everleigh’s shirt. I recognize the camera case from a few weeks ago. It sat unopened on her couch, alongside a spread of printed photos.
“Ev, you know your camera’s out here?”
“Just leave it,” she says dismissively. “And hurry because Birdie’s getting pretty insistent about coming inside.”
Something about the pink case left out in the garage bugs me. I’d bet my truck that it has something to do with the reason she’s all closed off. I want to know what happened so fucking bad it keeps me up some nights. But pressing her has only proven to shut her down.
“Wyatt?”
“Coming.” I refocus, reaching for the tin cup inside the bag of pellets and filling it half full of treats. With any luck, they’ll tempt Birdie out of Everleigh’s house and into the back seat of my patrol truck.
I shake the tin cup, and Birdie’s ears perk up instantly.
“You like treats, huh?” Everleigh asks with a laugh as Birdie shuffles backward. There isn’t enough room in the narrow hallway for her to turn around, but the animal backs herself into the garage as though unloading from a horse trailer. Once all four hooves are on cement, she turns to face me expectantly.
I drop a few pellets into my palm and hold it out to Birdie in offering.
