He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her for a long, silent moment before he reached out and touched the strap hanging around her neck. “This is a sight for sore eyes. I don’t think I have one memory of you without a camera hanging around your neck.”
It was a sight that Brett remembered all too well. Callie standing on the sidelines at every football game, snapping pictures of the players, the mascot, the cheerleaders. Callie at the Friday night bonfires, the pep rallies, the school dances.
As photographer for the yearbook, she’d been a mainstay at every major event. But while everyone else had been focused on having fun, she’d hung back, drinking in the big picture. Watching, but not participating. She’d never really fit in, a fact that had nothing to do with being a Tucker and everything to do with having big-time dreams in a small, small town.
There was nothing big-time about her now. She wore another sundress like the one she’d had on yesterday. A pale pink number that was sheer enough to make him swallow. The material molded to her full breasts and nipped at her waist. A soft breeze ruffled her long blond hair and teased the hem of her dress, revealing an endless pair of legs. She wasn’t decked out like some high-powered journalist, and yet he could still see the hunger in her eyes. The gleam that said she wasn’t giving up.
And damn if didn’t admire her for it.
Way too much for a man with a strict Hands-Off policy.
Then again, he’d violated said policy last night. And then he’d spent the entire night thinking that maybe it was the policy itself that made him want her that much more.
He’d always been a sucker for what he couldn’t have, and while he’d learned that the world didn’t owe him shit, he had no problem doing his damnedest to earn what he wanted.
And he wanted her.
Sure, he’d lost his control way back when, but he was a decade older, and a helluva lot wiser. Maybe instead of avoiding trouble, he should head straight for it and prove once and for all that he could handle himself where she was concerned. Then he could stop thinking about Callie, stop wanting her, and get his mind on the business at hand—getting the ranch back on track.
The maybe played in his head all of a few seconds before his decision was made.
He wanted Callie, and it was time to stop wanting and start doing.
“I know the safe was a bust yesterday, but I’m not giving up on the recipe.” He needed that money every bit as much as she did. And he needed her. And searching through the attic would give him a chance at both. “I talked to Karen and there’s a good possibility our half of the recipe might be buried up in the attic somewhere.”
A gleam lit her eyes. “Seriously?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it’s worth a look. We could start going through everything this evening. I’ve got a long day, but I should be done by about six.”
She smiled at him, a full-blown tilt to her lush lips that made his entire body ache. “I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER 17
“Thank God you’re home.” Jenna met Callie as soon as she opened the front door that afternoon. “We’ve got a big problem.” The youngest Tucker sister pushed Callie back out onto the front porch and hauled the door shut behind her. “Alex is here.”
“How is that our problem?
“He brought Arnie McIntyre with him.” Jenna glanced behind her as if afraid the two men had followed her out onto the front porch. “Arnie just got his acupuncture certificate online and Alex brought him out here to give me treatments.”
“For what?”
“The claustrophobia.”
“You don’t have claustrophobia.”
“I know that and you know that, but when I said I was feeling smothered, he took it a bit literally. He spent all day yesterday Googling treatments. Turns out this one Web site suggested acupuncture, so he called up Arnie and now they’re in the living room preparing to stick a crapload of needles in me.”
“Again, how is that our problem?”
Jenna glared before the look faltered and desperation slid into its place. “You have to help me, Cal. I’m afraid of needles.”
“You are not.”
“Okay, so I’m afraid of Arnie. He’s got a lazy eye. Do you know what a lazy eye can do to your aim? I could wind up blind or maimed.”
“Just tell Alex you don’t have claustrophobia. You have commitment phobia.”
“I can’t do that.” She glanced over her shoulder, her voice lowering a notch. “You didn’t see him. He looks so hopeful. You have to do it.”
“I’m not breaking up for you. Stand up. Be a woman.”
“But I’m no good at destroying people. You’re the mean one.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Brandy’s the focused one. You’re the mean one. And I’m the hot one.”
“If you’re trying to butter me up, you’re doing it wrong.”
“Don’t take it personally. You’re just a straight shooter. No beating around the bush. Remember when Jackson Karnes asked you out last year? You told him to take a flying leap.”
“I did not. I just said I wouldn’t go out with him because it was a conflict of interest. Les was working for him to sell his house, and I work for Les. I couldn’t go out with someone that I was technically working for.”
Dating, no. Kissing, yes.
Callie’s stomach hollowed out and she remembered the purposeful slant of Brett’s lips on hers. She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “I had to adhere to a code of conduct.”
Then and now.
Even though Brett hadn’t actually signed the paperwork to give Les the listing for the hundred acres, he’d given his word, which was just as binding. Just one more reason to keep her distance.
As if she needed another one.
Yesterday’s fall from grace when he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him back had proved beyond a doubt that she was still desperately attracted to him. Attracted and distracted, neither of which she could afford at the moment.
He made her forget what was really important in her life. Paying off the taxes, mailing off her tear sheets, getting out of Rebel. Instead, she found herself thinking about him and how sexy he looked and how great he tasted and how she’d really, really like to taste him again.
This afternoon.
She gave herself a mental kick in the keister. It wasn’t as if they had a date. They were joining forces for the money. The recipe. They were going to dig through an old, stuffy attic, not feel each other up.
Not yet.
She shook away the crazy thought. She was not feeling Brett up. Not now. Not ever. Their connection now was strictly business.
“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 aro
und, 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 drin
k 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.
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