Page 60 of Burn the Wild

Twenty minutes later, when I’m finished with most of my errands, and a few extra stops that weren’t on my list, I slip inside the boutique.

Rita Foster, our resident town gossip, smirks. “You look lost, Ford.”

I feel lost, like I’ve wandered into the middle of a pink cotton candy world. Silk roses cover one wall, and a neon sign proclaims STOP THINKING, START SHOPPING. I wander aimlessly up and down the aisles, sniffing candles and touching things I’ll never buy.

“Reese?” I say, when I don’t see her.

“Over here.” Her blonde head pops up from a rack of brightly colored tops.

The puzzled look on her face brings a smile to my lips. “You look like you don’t know where to start.”

“I don’t.”

I take a step backward. “Well, don’t look at me.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve never done this before. Well, formebefore. Usually, I just go with what my stylist selects. Or what Gavin likes.”

I dab a finger against her bangles. “Did he pick those out?”

She jerks her arm back so fast you’d think I burned her. “No.” Her words are soft. Sad. “These are mine. I did that.”

Concern urges me to ask more, but I stay silent. This isn’t the place. Not when Rita’s watching us like a hawk. Not when we need to get back to the ranch.

Slowly, Reese explores the store, and I follow. She pauses at a case of shimmery necklaces.

“You like jewelry, honey?”

She flushes, looks back at the case. “Yes,” she says. “I like pretty things. I know that makes me shallow, but I do.”

“Nah,” I say. “It makes you, you. Hell, I’ve spent an entire paycheck on fishing lures.”

Resolve flashes in her eyes, and she grabs up her stack of clothes from a nearby chair. “I’ll be right back.” With a toss of her hair, she enters the dressing room.

Minutes pass.

The whip of the curtain has me turning. I almost lose consciousness. Reese stands there in a blue jean shirt tied at the midriff and tiny cut-off shorts.

“What do you think of this?”

God, where the fuck is this in my job description? Blood floods straight to my cock.

I shake my head, trying not to look at her. “They’re clothes,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Reese rolls her eyes. “You’re infuriating.”

Dragging a hand through my hair, I step closer. “Look. It doesn’t matter what I think. If you like it, get it.”

I don’t know if I’ve said the right thing or the wrong thing, because she stares at me, then shuts the curtain.

I busy myself by looking down at the tray of necklaces Reese was inspecting. They’re all cowboy-themed—tiny charms shaped like horseshoes, boots, and hats dangle from delicate gold chains. My mind drifts, imagining Reese wearing them around her slender throat. My pulse spikes.

“I’m going to get this,” she says, emerging from the dressing room.

I look up. Frown. “Just that?”

In her hands is a thin piece of fabric. Behind her, piled on the dressing room floor, a mountain of clothes as big as the Rockies.

She makes a face. “It’s all I have in my account. I checked.”

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