Page 69 of Knot my First Rodeo

My shorts suddenly feel too tight, the waistband digging into skin that feels too aware of itself and when I pull my hair up off my neck, relief hits hard enough that I pause halfway to the bathroom.

Then my brain switches over to the actual bigger problem.

Briggs.

My stomach immediately somersaults and gets butterflies all at the same time.

Stupid, sexy asshole.

We kissed… actually kissed.

Not one of those moments you replay later wondering if maybe something almost happened. No, this was full on mouth-on-mouth and his hand on my neck. It was the kind of kiss that had my brain quietly short-circuiting before he pulled away like he suddenly remembered I was contagious.

You’re not right.

My mouth flattens.

What the hell does that even mean?

Okay, maybe the feed store thing and the bar had been a little unhinged, but in my defense, those women had been touching them like they were theirs, and⁠—

No… we’re not unpacking that before coffee.

The alphas are already moving by the time I drag myself downstairs. The smell of coffee reaches me before I even get to the kitchen, followed by bacon and something sweet that makes my stomach twist.

Clint stands at the stove, sleeves shoved up while he flips bacon with the kind of focus that honestly feels unfair before eight in the morning. Coffee and vanilla settles in the kitchen every time he moves, grounding in a way I don’t particularly care to examine. Tripp’s slouched at the table looking halfway to dead, dark hair sticking up everywhere while he stares into his coffee mug.

And Briggs… he’s just sitting there drinking coffee, like yesterday never happened.

Like he didn’t kiss me in the feed store parking lot hard enough to rearrange my emotional stability before deciding… actually, never mind.

He glances up when I sit down across from him, whiskey eyes catching mine for half a second.

“Morning.”

That’s it. ‘Morning.’

My eye twitches. Sir, we literally kissed.

“You look rough,” Tripp declares around a yawn.

“Good morning to you, too.”

His mouth lifts. “You look sweaty.”

“I hate this house.”

Clint glances over his shoulder, brow raising. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

The words come out snappier than I mean for them to, irritation flaring fast. Silence settles for half a second before Clint turns back to the stove.

Briggs? He just takes another drink of coffee.