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“This is why I keep telling you to get a girl already,” Beau added. “She’d perk you up nicely.”
I shot him a scathing look over my shoulder. Ever since we were young boys, Beau made it seem so effortless to be charming and outgoing. Girls always flocked around him, or left him little love notes scribbled with hearts.
Now that we were both grown men in our thirties, Beau’s luck with the ladies continued to grow by leaps and bounds. Damn near every unmarried woman in Ash Ridge—and a few married ones as well—had a romantic encounter with Beau Collins of some kind, whether it was a harmless flirtation waiting in line at the coffee shop, or a roll in the hay during harvest season.
My experience with women on the other hand…was non-existent.
As a boy, I hid behind the fact that I was too bashful and tongue-tied to say much to anyone in the first place. As a man, I had no excuses and my lack of practice was obvious. So, I threw myself into the only two things I’d ever known: horses and hard work.
“Don’t need a woman in my life,” I muttered. “She would just complicate things.”
Beau snorted.
“Some complications are welcome ones, buddy.”
The image of Callie in her strawberry tank top and small shorts rose to my mind. The thin fabric hugged her curves like a second skin. I’d been torn between staring in order to commit every inch of her to memory, and looking away because she was too perfect, too tempting. It haunted my every waking thought—the way I’d wanted to smooth my thumbs along her thighs in those little shorts, or push her tank top up and taste those sweet, peaked nipples…
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to steady myself. She was my neighbor, for God’s sake. And Cora’s granddaughter, too. I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
Besides, I owed a lot to Cora. That woman had treated me with more kindness than my own father ever did. The old bastard never wasted an opportunity to remind me how I would fail to become a man.
You’re a scrawny boy. No girl wants to kiss a bean-pole. Besides, you look like you’ll blow over in the first strong gust of wind.
You spend too much time around those goddamn horses, boy. Why don’t you bring a girl home once in a while?
You’re old enough to have a wife and kids by now, but I bet you ain’t even had a chance to get your dick wet yet. I’m disappointed in you, kid. I worked hard to raise you right and you ain’t gonna amount to nothin’ in this life.
Behind me, Beau gave a low whistle, pulling me from my reverie.
“Is that the McClaren girl?”
I glanced up to see Callie riding bareback on Tennyson. Her hair spilled down her back, tousled by the wind, and her legs hugged her horse’s sides nice and tight. Her reins rested loose and easy in her grip, her posture relaxed, comfortable.
She looked damn good on that horse. Definitely not a fumbling city girl.
God, why had I called her that?
My frustration over my poor first impression resurfaced all over again. I blew it with Callie yesterday and I knew it. All I’d wanted to do was offer help in a neighborly fashion if she needed it. Instead, I sounded stiff, cold, and aloof. I turned back to my work, lined up the nail in my board again, and drove it in with my hammer—missing my thumb this time.
Beau stopped what he was doing as he watched Callie ride by. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. In the summer heat, we’d both ditched our shirts. He was slick withsweat, muscles tanned from years of hard labor in the sun. Jealousy turned my tongue sharp.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate it if she caught you gawking at her. Your mouth is hanging open like a goddamn fish.”
Beau breathed a soft laugh and thumped me on the shoulder.
“You should get over there and introduce yourself before I do. Didn’t Miss Cora say she was moving in?”
He paused, watching as Callie disappeared into a line of trees. Then he looked at me.
“Wait a second.”
I kept my head down, face shielded by the brim of my hat.
“You met her already, didn’t you?” Beau said.
I shrugged. “Might have.”
His face brightened. He came to stand beside me, leaning his shoulder against the barn.
