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A hammer clatters to the floor.
All eyes in the gallery snap to me.
I attempt to smile at my audience and dip my head. “No pants came off, folks. Just a shirt, because it was hot. Not that it matters or should be of interest to anyone. Best if we all get back to work.”
The volunteers slowly resume their activities. I swivel away from my brothers, attempting to control the flush burning my neck, and nearly walk into Jolene. She’s in her cutest country outfit—cowboy boots, shredded jean shorts, sexy yellow button-up tank top that ties at her slim waist. I muffle my forlorn groan.
She raises her eyebrow. “So you took off your pants, huh?”
“Shirt.It was my shirt.” I rub at my blazing neck. “I was working and hot, and now I’m apparently a stripper with Velcro pants that rip off.”
“I also heard you had a threesome with Simone and Javier.”
Forget a flushed neck. Every inch of me must be burning red. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“You know this town, Cal. Gossip is its oxygen.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and mumble a curse. Maybe I spoke too soon about missing Windfall so much.
“Also,” Jo says more quietly, “I heard you and I were making out on your street the other night.”
My eyes fly open, my heart gunning for my throat. “What?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “People saw us walking. Maybe saw us holding hands.”
“But we didn’t kiss,” I say vehemently.
She flinches. “Wow. Say it with a bit more disgust next time. Don’t want any of my ego to remain intact.”
Ah, shit. The way she’s blinking rapidly? The slight hunch of her shoulders, which are usually pulled back, relaying confidence? I am such an asshole.
“Jo.” I guide her to a quieter area, flexing my fingers, which are dying to spread along the small of her back. “No part of me is disgusted by you.”
“It’s fine, Cal. We’re just friends, right?”
“We are.”
“And the idea of kissing me grosses you out.”
How the hell can she think I’m not dying to crush her to the wall right now? Feel her body molded to mine as I lick my tongue into her sassy mouth?
I’m pretty sure Jolene is as torn up over me as I am over her. All her signs lately point to interest. The other night, we basically admitted we crushed on each other in high school. I assumed the feelings I’ve been fighting have been as easy to read, but she recently admitted how insecure she’d been when we were teens. Self-doubt that maybe still infects her life. My reaction to our kissing rumor could have made her feel unattractive and badly about herself.
Instinctively, I move. Crowd in closer to her, drop my voice even lower, needing her to understand. To see herself the way I see her. “The idea of kissing you, Jo, doesn’t gross me out. It’s the exact opposite.”
She frowns and drops her gaze. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t tell me what I do and don’t mean. I was reacting to the idea of everyone thinking we were kissing. Not how I’d feel if I had my mouth on you.”
Her eyes snap up to mine, a swirl of heat growing in their depths. Her eyelashes flutter. “Does that mean youwantto kiss me?”
“We can’t talk about this,” I say, feeling like all eyes are still on me. Jo’s eyes, in particular, haven’t budged. We’re having some sort of staring contest, neither of us looking away, tension coiling as she assesses my sincerity. The question I refuse to answer:Hell yes, I want to kiss you.
More than kiss. I want to devour her. Here. Now. Twelve years ago.
Her mouth softens, and she shrugs a shoulder. “Just so you know, I’m not disgusted by you either.”
I smile at my boots, can barely handle looking at her beautiful face. I have no clue how we can flip from a dangerous conversation to joking on a dime. “Glad the feeling’s mutual.”
