You woke up to the smell of campfire smoke and cheap whiskey sweat. And something heavy across your middle.

Your head pounded. Your tongue was dry. Your throat tasted like tequila and bad decisions.

And when you cracked one eye open, you realized two things in rapid succession: 1. You were in the bed of someone’s pickup. 2. Jack Marston was asleep next to you — one arm tossed over your waist, the other curled under his head like a pillow, boots still on, and shirt half-unbuttoned.

Your first instinct was to shove him off the side of the truck. Your second was to scream. Your third? You groaned instead, grabbing your face. “Oh hell no…”

You didn’t even remember getting in the truck bed.

Hell, you didn’t even remember sitting down after that damn dare. Just a blur of yelling, someone passing you a bottle, and Jack’s stupid smirking mouth on yours like the world was ending.

— “Jack,” you hissed, elbowing his ribs. “Wake up.”

He groaned, rolled onto his back like a man dying. “Five more minutes…”

“Jack.”

— “What?” He squinted at the sky. “What time is it?”

— “No clue.” You sat up, barely. The blanket you’d somehow both ended up under slipped down your legs, and your stomach twisted. “This is bad.”

Jack blinked over at you, eyes bloodshot. “Did we—?”

“No. God, no.”

“Okay.” He nodded, wiped his face. “Cool. Good. ‘Cause, y’know, your brother would kill me.”

The timing could not have been worse.

Because just then — like some higher power wanted to punish you — your brother walked around the corner of the barn, coffee cup in hand, sunglasses on, and paused at the edge of the truck.

He stared.

You and Jack stared back.

You were still under the blanket.

Jack was still shirt-wrinkled and half-asleep.

And your brother?

He took a long sip of his coffee.

Then looked directly at Jack and said, “You got about ten seconds to explain why you woke up wrapped around my sister like a damn fruit roll-up.”

Jack sat bolt upright. “Nothing happened! I swear! I mean look — boots on, jeans on, no—no funny business!”