Page 54 of Burn the Wild

And then a sight worse than my memories hits me.

The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life is in my bed.

Wearing my goddamn jersey.

I’m in a cocoon of cozy, warm safety, sunlight cascading over my skin. A tinny clattering noise, bare feet on floorboards, a tiny mewl—perfect, homey sounds.

It doesn’t feel the same as when I’m on tour or on a set.

ExceptIfeel the same. Cottonmouth. A pounding headache.

The rich scent of coffee drifts through the air. I crack an eye and sit up in bed. Where the fuck am I? Waking up in a strange bed isn’t anything new, but this place feels different. My gaze roams around the masculine room. High ceiling beams. Slate-gray walls. Sleek oak furniture.

What happened last night?

Ford.

Bar.

Dancing.

Word vomiting.

Actual vomiting.

“Oh no.”

I bared too much. Drank too much. Like always.

So much for New Reese.

As I shove the mound of blankets off me, I see a chair next to the bed. A bag of cinnamon candies and a bottle of water on the nightstand. His boots. A quilt.

A memory sweeps over me. Waking in the middle of the night and finding myself in Ford’s arms as he lifted me up and made me take tiny sips of water.

Ford stayed with me. When I was sick.

Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or so very grateful.

Bladder screaming at me, I get up and pad to the bathroom. Finding a bottle of mouthwash and an unopened toothbrush next to the sink makes my eyes grow big. A gooey feeling takes root in my stomach, and I shake it off. He probably has women stay over all the time.

I wash my face, scrubbing it like I can erase the wreckage of last night, then head out of the bedroom in nothing but Ford’s jersey and my underwear.

I step into a small living room-kitchen combo, my gaze locking on Ford at the counter, wearing gray sweatpants and a backward baseball cap. The sight of him speeds my heart. There’s something mysterious about the man. That hard jawline. Those amber eyes. Forearms that should be in a hall of fame.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I drift forward, drawn to him.

Hunched over the stove, Ford stirs something in a pan. Coffee gurgles in a pot beside him. I smile when I see the black cat on the counter. Every few seconds, Ford stops and feeds her a piece of bacon.

Guess the cat distribution system works its way through even the hardest hearts.

“How are you feeling?” he asks without looking up.

I freeze. Clear my throat. “Currently dying from dehydration, but I’ll survive.”

“Coffee?” His lazy drawl makes my stomach turn over.

I shake myself out of my admiring gaze. “Oh, uh, yes. Please.” My voice is rough.

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