Texas Thunder (16 page)

“I don't kiss clients,” Callie heard herself say before she could think better of it.

Her sister's eyes twinkled suddenly as if she'd just gotten an earful of juicy gossip. “Wait a second. You didn't tell me that Jackson kissed you.”

“Because he didn't.”

“But you just said—”

“Go.” Callie motioned toward the small truck with Rebel Veterinary Clinic blazing across the side. “Get out of here. I'll tell Alex you had an emergency. A calf birthing or something.”

“Really?”

“I said so, didn't I?”

Jenna smiled and fished in her pocket for her keys. “You're the best big sister in the entire world.”

“And you're still a chicken shit.” Her gaze caught Jenna's. “You're going to have to have a real, honest conversation with him sometime soon. You know that, right?”

“I will.” Jenna nodded. “I just need some time to find the right words.” She started down the steps. “I'll call him later. Oh, and make sure you let Arnie know it's you coming through the door and not me, otherwise he's liable to stick first and ask questions later.”

Callie nodded and watched her sister hightail it for the vet mobile. The engine cranked and the motor revved. A heartbeat later, Jenna backed down the dirt drive, swung the vehicle around, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Jenna? Honey?” The voice came from inside the house. “I hate to rush you, but Arnie's all set up. He really needs to get started. He's only got a half hour with us before he needs to head into town and meet with the mayor's wife. She's trying to give up smoking and acupuncture is great for addictions.”

The notion stuck as Callie opened the front door and walked inside. Maybe Arnie hadn't made a trip for nothing.

*   *   *

Twenty well-placed needles later (with only one
oops
thanks to Arnie's lazy eye), Callie was ready to head over to Bootleg Bayou.

A mixture of excitement and dread built over the thirty-minute drive. Excitement because she was at least doing something to find the recipe and dread because all the acupuncture in the world couldn't make her forget that kiss or the fact that she wanted another.

Not that she was kissing him again.

Her guarantee?

Distance. She intended to keep three feet between them at all times.

Thankfully the attic was like everything else at the Sawyer spread—huge.

The acreage. The ranch house. Brett himself.

That truth hit home when she leaned up on her tiptoes to pull a large cardboard box off the top shelf of an antique wall unit.

He came up behind her. He leaned in, strong muscular arms coming up on either side to help navigate the cardboard safely to the ground.

His large, dark hands were a stark contrast to the pale creaminess of her own skin and electricity skimmed through her as his thumb brushed the side of her palm. Her fingers trembled. Her heart drummed.

An alarm went off in her head, signaling that he'd breached the three-foot safety zone she'd designated for herself. Too close, but there wasn't a thing she could do about it. He stood directly behind her, surrounding her.

She turned to face him, but he didn't back up. Suddenly, she couldn't get enough air. She drew in a deep breath, the motion pushing her breasts up and out. Her nipples kissed his chest. Electricity rumbled from the point of contact, zigzagging to every erogenous zone in her body.

“Thanks, but I can handle it from here,” she managed to say, her voice more breathy than she intended.

“My pleasure.”

Mine, too.

The thought slipped into her mind a split second before he touched her. The tip of his callused finger caught a drop of perspiration that slid down her neck. “You're all hot and bothered, sugar.”

“Hot, yes.” She steeled herself against the purposeful glide of his touch. “Bothered, no. I'd just like to get on with it.”

“So would I.” Innuendo dripped from the words. His gaze dropped, roaming over her neck and shoulders covered with a fine sheen of sweat, down over the damp material of her T-shirt, the bare skin of her stomach glistening just above the waistband of her shorts.

“The recipe,” she croaked, the sound of her own voice effectively breaking the erotic spell that held her captive. “I bet it's in this box.” She turned so fast that her shoulder bumped his. Electricity skimmed through her and she stiffened. “Or one of those.” She pointed to the stack he'd been working on before he'd abandoned them to help her. “You should get back to work.”

He didn't move. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, as if debating whether to reach for her again.

Please, please, please,
a small traitorous voice chanted. She steeled herself and wiped at the sweat beading on her forehead. “You'd think the heat would let up once the sun goes down, but I swear it's getting hotter. Not that I'm bothered by the heat. Not at all.”

No, she was bothered by him.

Very bothered.

“I'll open another window.” He moved then, putting some blessed space between them as he went over to a large dormer window and worked at the opening. Wood creaked and a small breeze whispered into the stuffy room. “There. That's better.”

If only. But he was still there. The chemistry between them was still palpable. And so breathing proved a chore over the next half hour as she went through box after box filled with everything from trinkets to pictures to a hand-carved statue of a male penis.

“Tell me this isn't what I think it is,” she murmured as she stared at the smooth lines of the wood, the round globes that looked suspiciously like …

“Yep, it's a rocket. At least that's what I was going for when I sat down with Pappy to learn how to whittle. But then I couldn't get the blasters to look like blasters and so I ended up with a replica of Mr. Happy.”

“You call your male part Mr. Happy?”

“No, I call mine Rex.” His grin was slow and wicked. “Mr. Happy's just a general term that most people recognize.”

She wasn't going to ask. That's what she told herself as she set the carving aside and pulled out a handful of pictures. “Rex, huh?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Why Rex?”

“Why not? I mean, I suppose I could have gone with Godzilla or King Kong or something a little more descriptive, but Rex seems more down to earth. Friendly. And that's the real purpose. To get up close and friendly, don't you think?”

“I don't know. I think Rex sounds sort of stuffy. Pretentious even. You should go with something like Buddy. Or maybe Albert. I had a puppy named Albert once. He was super friendly.”

“I suppose I could name it after a puppy, but it would have to be a Great Dane pup, or maybe a German shepherd. Something really big.”

She glanced up then and caught the twinkle in his eyes. “You don't call it Rex, do you?”

“I suppose I could, but I've never really been the type to call it much of anything. I'm more a man of action.”

She blushed, he chuckled, and despite the sexual tension coiling around them, she started to relax.

He'd always been a big flirt, teasing her with his Southern charm and easy smile. He'd always been able to make her laugh and put her at ease even though she knew he posed the biggest threat. He'd been the biggest player in the senior class, and she'd fallen for him anyway because he'd talked to her, teased her, and made her smile.

Then, and now.

 

CHAPTER 18

Callie and Brett spent the next two hours going through box after box, working from right to left in the large, oversized attic. They unpacked each box, examining the contents before packing everything back up and marking the outside with a check. The boxes soon gave way to antique dressers, the drawers full, and several old trunks.

Callie reached for the first trunk, but Brett's voice stalled her. “I don't know about you, but I need something to drink. Can I get you anything?”

“Whatever's cold.”

He nodded and started down the stairs leading to the second floor. Callie blew out a deep breath and walked toward the open window. Staring out, she drank in the endless stretch of pasture, the rich, lush trees in the distance, the bare glimmer of the creek in the moonlight. She found herself wishing she'd brought her camera, but then the shots were too distant to entice a buyer. This sight was just for the naked eye.

She sank down on the window seat and stared out until she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to see Brett, two beers in his hands. He passed her a bottle dripping with condensation.

“I hope you don't mind Bud Light. It's the only thing that's really cold. Karen drank the last soda and Dolly doesn't go to the grocery store until tomorrow.”

“It's fine.” She twisted off the top and took a long pull of the ice-cold beer. She'd never had much of a taste for the stuff, but she had to admit that it certainly hit the spot. Especially when a speck of ice dripped from the glass and fell between her cleavage. The iciness swept a cool path south, over her bare skin, all the way to her waistband, sending a small, welcome shiver through her.

Brett sank down onto the floor, his back to the wall, his elbows propped on his bent knees as he stared at the mound of boxes stacked here and there. He took a long drink of his beer before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Silence settled between them for several moments and she took the opportunity to really look at him.

Time had turned the gangly teenage boy into a hard and muscular man. His white T-shirt—soaking wet now thanks to the stuffy attic—clung to his sinewy torso like a second skin, revealing a solid chest, a ridged abdomen. Her gaze lingered at the shadow of a nipple beneath the damp material and a dozen forbidden images rushed through her.

She took a deep breath and moved her attention to the jeans molded to his thighs, his calves. Scuffed black cowboy boots completed the outfit. His entire persona screamed danger. Brett was a womanizer, a use-'em-and-lose-'em type with a taste for sin and a body to back him up. He was the sort of man every mama warned her daughter about.

Trouble.

That's what Callie's own mama had called him, and she'd been right. But for all her objections, she hadn't interfered when Callie had accepted his prom invitation. After an entire year spent sitting across from him in the library, she'd been ready to step out of the role as his tutor and have him see her the way he did every other female at Rebel High.

Her gaze went to Brett's face. He had the trademark Sawyer cheekbones, so strong and defined, as well as a straight, sculpted nose, a firm jaw, and the most kissable lips she'd ever seen on a man. A few days' growth of beard covered his jaw, crept down his neck. His brown hair, as damp as his shirt, curled down around his neck, the edges highlighted the same brownish gold as the aged whiskey that her grandpa had been so fond of.

Her palms burned as she remembered the softness of those dark strands filtering through her fingers, brushing her neck, her collarbone, the sensitive tip of her nipple …

She drew a deep breath and noted the tiny lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. A scar zigzagged from his right temple and bisected his cheek and she couldn't deny the sudden urge to reach out and trace the puckered skin with her fingertip. To ask him what had happened. A bar fight? An angry bull?

The subtle changes made him seem older than the boy of eighteen who haunted her memories.

This was no boy. He was all man, and he had the hard look of someone who'd seen too much and done even more.

A tiredness pulled at his expression and she stiffened against a rush of sympathy. While they might be facing similar situations now, they were still worlds apart.

If only she didn't keep forgetting that all-important fact.

“I'd hoped we would have found it by now,” the deep rumble of his voice drew her from her thoughts.

“The night is still young. We'll find it.”

He stared at the bottle of beer and picked at the edge of the label before chancing a glance at her. “And if we don't?” His gaze caught hers. “Do you have a backup plan?”

She shrugged. “I figured I would pay a visit to the bank and ask for an extension. I doubt I'll get it, but it doesn't hurt to ask. Then I'll hit up Les and see if he can give me a loan.”

“That means you'll have to stick around to pay it back.”

She nodded. “That's usually the way a loan works.”

“Why not just let the bank have it? Or do a short sale and split whatever's left with your sisters?”

“We grew up in that house.” It was the one place that felt like home. The only place. “My dad and mom worked hard to keep up the bills when James couldn't make it. I can't just let it go. It's all we have. It's all I have left that still reminds me of them.”

Silence stretched between them for several long moments before his words echoed in her ears. “I'm really sorry about that night, Callie. I'm sorry it went to hell so fast, and I'm really sorry about your parents.”

His sorry didn't matter. She'd told herself that time and time again over the years. It didn't matter what he said. What he thought. None of it mattered.

She'd been right. The words didn't make a bit of difference. They were meaningless, an empty gesture that did little to console or ease the fist tightening inside of her.

Rather it was the gleam of sincerity in his gaze, the glimmer of regret that soothed the fierce ache and helped her next breath come a little easier.

“That broken-down house is my home. It always will be, even when I'm far away from here. I have to hold onto it. My sisters are just starting out. They need a place to stay while they build something solid for the future.”

“And what about you? What about your future?”