Page 17 of Burn the Wild

Myself.

Gratefulness and hope make my heart flutter as I stare at my surroundings. The green fields. A barn the size of a mansion. Horses roaming in an emerald pasture. It’s beautiful. It’s breathtaking. It’s—

“Shit!” I slam the breaks, narrowly avoiding colliding with a horse the size of a tank.

“Lady.” Atop the horse, a cowboy glares down at me through my open window. “Watch where you’re going.”

I exhale and feel my stomach drop. “Sorry.”

Quickly, I park in the gravel driveway, haphazardly taking up two parking spots. On numb legs, I hop out, leaving my bags in the car. I stopped by my penthouse to grab only the necessities: my guitar, my laptop, and whatever clothes were within arm’s reach.

I’m sleep-deprived and exhausted. I want a bed. A bed forone, just me. I want clean, cool sheets. A fully stocked fridge. Not like I would know what to buy though. Or eat, for that matter. For the first time in a long time, I don’t have anyone telling me what to do or where to go. It’s heaven.

But really, it’s Runaway Ranch. My temporary home.

Caught up in a wave of guests, I step inside the lodge and finally allow myself to breathe.

With its high ceilings and natural light, the lodge is alive and breathing. A line of people patiently waits to check in and boisterous laughter fills the air. Balloons, streamers, and a sign proclaiming OPENING DAY hang from the high ceilings. Music plays over the speakers—country. Phenomenal country. The kind of country that got me into singing just like my daddy.

Old-school Randy Travis. My lips move with the tune as I glance around the space.

In one corner, there’s a rustic-looking bar with three cowhide stools waiting at the counter. A neon sign on the wall glows BAR M. The sight of it makes my mouth water. I shouldn’t drink, but it’ll help take the edge off of all this newness.

On the drive here, I promised myself I’d be New Reese. No drinking. No dancing. No dark mind. Clean slate.

But God. Old Reese really wants a drink right now.

My heart hammers as I head for the bar, aware of stares on me. It’s right around this time I’m realizing if I wanted to lie low, the outfit isn’t helping. At my penthouse, I just threw on whatever was closest. Mini skirt, mini shirt—the only things Gavin lets me wear.You have a style, Reese,he’d always remind me.It doesn’t include cozy.Thigh-high boots covered in crystals cast rainbows across the wood wall.

I look like a train wreck. But that’s me, right? Reese Austin, messy as fuck.

I rummage through my bag and slip on a pair of oversized sunglasses.

After five minutes of waiting in line, it’s my turn.

I belly up to the bar.

“Hi, one second, please.” A pretty girl with long strawberry blonde hair dives for a beer glass. She looks flustered as she pulls the draft and spills half of it on her shaky hands.

A door slams open. I turn, expecting more guests, but it’s another cowboy. His loud boot stomps echo throughout the lodge. He looks pissed. The front of his T-shirt is covered in grease.

From somewhere to the left, there’s a loud shout. “You’re late.”

I glance over and see a huge guy with muscles like bowling balls pointing a finger at the cowboy.

“No fucking shit,” the cowboy snaps, glaring. After a string of curses, he takes his place behind the bar, rushing to help the blonde girl.

I bite my lip.

I may be exhausted, and he may be filthy, but I’m not blind.

Dusty and muddy, he looks like he just galloped out of the lyrics of a country song. His plain gray T-shirt stretches tight across his broad expanse of chest. Tan, sinewy forearms wrapped with veins show he’s worked in the fields, if not the gym. He’s the wordcountry boycome to life, and I can’t stop staring. Arealcowboy. Not like those pretty posers I’ve worked with.

My eyes trail lower. Huge, calloused hands. Long, nimble fingers. A tapered waist hugged by blue jeans.

“Here, Fairy Tale.” His lazy drawl interrupts my wandering gaze, and I watch as he takes the tray of glasses from the girl. The softness of his tone does something strange to my heart.

My eyes shoot back up to his face. A mistake. That sharp, square jaw. Full, lush lips. A mouth that would feel good on a dark starry night.

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