Page 170 of Burn the Wild

“Motherfucker,” he swears.

“I don’t know why I didn’t see it. I didn’t…”

“Don’t do that,” he orders in his deep, stern voice. “Don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

My cheeks heat with anger. “I hate him. I hate that I have to play this game because it feels like he’s still winning.”

A muscle jerks in Ford’s jaw as he covers his mouth with his large palm and thinks on it. His worried gesture. The intensity of his fury, his protectiveness, crackles in the space between us. “You’re not going back, Reese. I won’t let you.”

He tucks me against him, his piercing amber eyes scouring the street like Gavin’s out there, watching us.

What if he is?

“Let’s go back to the ranch,” Ford says.

“No.” I blow out a breath. “This doesn’t ruin our night.”

I’m not letting Gavin interfere with my life ever again.

Last Chance Honky-Tonk is the diviest dive bar on the windiest back road. Sawdust-coated dance floor, flickering neon on the walls, and guitar picks hot-glued to the ceiling. Ford and I sit ata sticky table, ignoring the suspicious stares from bear-guzzling locals. We order food, shots, and a pitcher of beer.

After the phone call with Dr. DiFeo, Ford’s handsome face still hasn’t lost those tight lines of tension.

“Relax, Ford.” I touch his arm. “You look like you want to commit a murder.”

Ford stares at me like he’s furious and amused at the same time. “Idowant to commit a murder.”

I laugh, then bite my lip. “He can’t get to me, right?”

“No.” His words are heated, angry. “He can’t.”

“So let’s forget about it. I’m here and you’re here and we’re going to have fun.” I swirl a finger around our drinks. “C’mon, Country Boy, show me some of that swagger.”

Ford studies me, rolls out his shoulders, and takes his shot. I follow suit.

“This is what you had in mind, Birdie Girl? Slummin’ it?”

“No,” I tell him. “It’s never slumming with you.”

He scrapes a hand along his jaw, holds it in contemplation. “I’ve been thinking…”

“Dangerous business.”

He gives me a grin and says, “I put an offer in on Old Mill’s Farm.” At the arch of my eyebrow, he goes on. “Hell, Birdie, you gave me the idea. I want to start a baseball camp for kids. Put a big fucking baseball diamond smack dab in the center of that field.”

“And your Georgia mansion.”

“Yeah,” he husks. “My Georgia mansion.” He refills my beer from the pitcher. “What do you think?” His voice holds a nervous edge.

The idea is so perfectly Ford. Outdoorsy and free and easygoing. It’s what he wants. It makes him smile. I love it for him.

“I think it’s fucking amazing.” I tilt my head. Hope and worry duel inside me. “But what about the job offer in New York?”

“Yeah. About that,” he says, his eyes never leaving my face. He wraps his broad hand around my wrist, holding it tenderly, like my scars are his as well. “Listen, baby, I—”

“Hey, man, you’re Ford Montgomery.” A guy, barely older than twenty-one, comes close to us with a Sharpie in his hand. “Can I get an autograph?”

“On a date,” Ford grunts.

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