Page 42 of Colton’s Mate

Maybe it wasn’t as good for him as it was for her.

Maybe she shouldn’t have just gone out and left him alone in bed, either.

Maybe she should have made him breakfast. That’s what Good Girl Callie would have done, but she’d promised him Love ‘em and Leave ‘em Callie.

So she’d left. Because that’s what Bad Callie was supposed to do, right? She didn’t stick around for morning conversation.

Not even in her own house.

And also…

She wasn’t supposed to get attached.

Except, Colt McCall was totally addicting. She wanted more. Which he didn’t want. And neither did she, because then that ended with her cooking and cleaning and him lying on the couch watching sports and calling out for more beer.

So it was good that he didn’t call. Except, why did it make her feel so cold and lonely?

She sat, picking at her French toast, until a winged shadow passed over her head, making her duck reflexively. A large envelope landed in her plate, spattering syrup onto her leg.

Fucking crows. She looked up to yell curses at it—she’d been developing new ones—when she saw it wasn’t a crow at all.

It was a huge snowy owl, coming in for a landing on the post at the bottom of the porch steps. It landed and folded its wings, then swiveled its head to gaze at her with one huge amber eye.

“Colt?” she whispered.

She immediately realized her mistake. This wasn’t Colt. Which left only one choice. She looked at the sticky envelope. On it, in big green letters, was written ‘Owl Post.’

Why the hell was Remy bringing her Owl Post? He hopped to the ground, then bent forward and dipped his beak into the glass full of orange juice sitting on the step.

“Hey! Cut that out! I don’t know where that beak has been.”

The owl sputtered and spit orange liquid onto her foot. Hah.

“Mimosas strike again.” She’d spiked her orange juice with champagne.

Because she could.

The owl gave an annoyed kak! and she grinned at him. “So what did you bring me? Love notes? An invitation? Just so you know, not into threesomes, and I can totally tell you two apart—Remy.”

She picked up the envelope—now splotched with grease as well as syrup. Half of it had landed in the bacon.

She was starting to open it when Remy partially extended his wing and tried to knock over her mimosa. She barely saved it.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

He held out his left talon, and she realized there was a little leather bag tied to his leg. He shook it and it jingled.

Callie suddenly remembered her Harry Potter books. “Are you kidding? You want a fucking tip?” He hopped a little closer, then held the bag out again. “I don’t have any knuts. Or galleons.”

He swiveled his head around, glared, and then leaped toward her. Callie dodged back on reflex, and Remy snatched all her bacon off her plate with one swipe of his talons and flew off, hoot-laughing.

The bacon? That was seriously out of line. “Pecker!” she called. “Read my roof!”

She heard an unmistakable splat from overhead. “Did you just crap on my Fuck Off sign?”

More hoot-laughing as he flew away.

“I know where you live!” she yelled at his retreating form. She had to figure out some way to get him back—she couldn’t let him get away with that shit.