Page 11 of Cowboy Stolen Kiss for Christmas

Flint squared his shoulders. “If you can name a single rodeo we’ve ridden in that’s employed less than two pickup riders, then I’ll stand down. Otherwise, I’m coming with.”

Ames glared at him, starting to feel boxed in. “Are you really that bored?” The last thing he needed was for his youngest brother to tag along, clowning around and creating scenes like he was so fond of doing. Fading into the background was a foreign concept to an attention hog like him.

Flint’s expression grew obstinate. “If what you say is true about her being the one, it’s my future sister-in-law I’ll be helping out this morning. Like it or not, I’ve got some skin in this game.”

Ames stood and scraped back his stool. “So help me, Flint, if you do anything more at the restaurant than slurp down that cup of coffee you insist I owe you?—”

Flint’s loud whoop of elation silenced the rest of Ames’ warning. Fortunately, he had the sense to leave his mug on the bar before commencing an obnoxious victory jig around the kitchen.

Ames shook his head at him. “Are you going to at least comb out your bed head?”

“Yup.” Flint reached up with both hands to run his fingers through the longish blond waves. If anything, he made it worse. He continued his jig across the living room to the front door, where he stepped into the boots he’d kicked off there last night.

Moving to the sofa, he retrieved his Stetson and spun back toward his brother in a courtly bow. “Do I pass inspection?”

Ames followed him, still shaking his head. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna have her work cut out for her.”

“Probably. And I’ve already got the lucky woman picked out.” Grinning from ear to ear, Flint started to button his shirt.

I seriously doubt that. His youngest brother reveled way too much in all the attention of the rodeo groupies. Ames had yet to see him go on more than two or three dates with the same woman. He had an awful lot of growing up still to do.

“You missed a button.” He reached over to flick the button in question, letting his arm continue swinging upward toward Flint’s nose.

Flint neatly dodged the intended nose flick while fixing the button he’d previously missed. Then he stuffed the front flaps of his shirt tails loosely into his jeans. “I’m ready to two-step, darling.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively at Ames’ sock feet.

Out of sheer habit, Ames mechanically slung a leg toward the door but encountered nothing but air. He scowled at the empty spot by the door where his boots normally rested. “What did you do with my boots?” So help me! Living with Flint could be such a pain in the rear sometimes, and Ames already had more than enough aches and pains radiating from his shoulder blades to his backside — thanks to his skid down the icy porch steps next door.

“They’re in the mud room.” Flint’s voice was deceptively polite and helpful.

“Why?” They were two single guys batching it alone. It wasn’t as if anyone cared how many boots they left by the front door.

“So I could get a head start to the truck in case you tried to stop me from riding shotgun.” Flint whipped his jacket from the hall tree and took off at a jog down the stairs leading to their lower-level garage. He banged the door shut behind him. Loudly.

Silently begging the Lord for patience, Ames stomped to the mudroom around the corner to retrieve his boots. It doubled as a laundry room. A washer and dryer rested inside a storage alcove on one side, and a bench with locker room hooks mounted over it filled the space on the other side.

Flint had literally tossed Ames’ boots inside the room, probably without even looking. One was perched haphazardly on the edge of the washer. The other boot was lying on its side in the doorway.

Ames was in no mood for conversation by the time he made his way to the truck he’d been sharing with Flint during their stint in Pinetop. If his youngest brother valued his life, he’d pipe down during the short drive to the restaurant.

To his surprise, the garage door was already rolled open, and not one but two brothers awaited him inside the truck. It was a restored, black and silver classic Chevy. One long leather seat filled the cab. There was no console divider.

Ames yanked open the door to the driver’s side. “What in the world?” Their oldest brother, Nash, was lounged in the middle of the seat with his bionic arm hiked up on the back of the seat behind Flint. It was downright miraculous how well he’d adjusted to his new life as an amputee.

Flint pushed his Stetson back to fix Ames with an innocent look. “All pickup riders are present and accounted for, sir.” He punctuated the claim with a sharp military salute. “We’re doing this Carson brothers’ style.”

Ames glanced at his watch, irritated to see that it was already quarter ’til eight. There was no time left to argue the matter. He climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, and started the motor.

“Cranky,” Flint hissed in a stage voice.

Nash gave him a warning look. “So, uh…Noelle gave me permission to tell you two something and only you two.”

Ames’s insides tightened with apprehension as he backed from the garage and rolled down the driveway. “Is she okay?”

His oldest brother’s expression softened. “She’s pregnant.”

“Whoa!” Ames feathered the truck brakes for a moment before jamming down on them at the base of the driveway. “Congratulations!” He leaned over to deliver a hug, bumping Stetsons in the process and knocking them askew.

“Thanks!” Nash straightened his hat just in time for Flint to slap his arms around him in an explosive bear hug. This time, Nash’s Stetson went flying to his knees.

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