Page 78 of Burn the Wild

“Yeah,” he finally rasps. “You are.”

My eyes widen as his hand finds my chin, tilts my gaze to his. The same gentle gesture as last night. Heat rushes to my stomach. He steps closer, a wall of hard chest moving into my space.

I try to pull back, but he holds me where I stand. Relentless, the man.

His hand cups my cheek, then tucks a loose curl behind my ear. It feels like a flamethrower ignites my body as he leans forward. My lips part—

“We got a code Freedom Fucker,” crackles from the two-way radio on Ford’s hip, jolting us apart.

Swearing, he grabs the radio and silences it.

“What’s a code Freedom Fucker?” I ask, still feeling Ford’s breath against my lips.

“It’s Wyatt-speak for the cows got out.” Into the receiver, he snarls, “Your turn, asshole.”

Then he snaps off the dial. When his gaze returns to my face, he says, “You, uh, said you don’t have service at the chalet.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I like the quiet.”

He holds out the two-way radio. “You should take this.”

I blink. “It’s yours.”

“I don’t want you out there without a phone.” Gaze tracking my face, he clears his throat. “Besides, I have another. Use it when you need me.”

The corner of my mouth turns up. “That’s assuming I’ll need you.” I lean in, fingers grazing his as I inspect the radio. “How does it work?”

“Here.” He fiddles with the buttons and shows me the ropes. A random burst of static from the speaker has me wincing. “It turns off and on randomly,” he says, banging it against his thigh. “Glitchy wiring.”

I laugh lightly. “Sounds like me.”

“Channel twelve is the ranch,” he gruffs out. “And nine is mine.”

“Got it.”

He hitches his thumb as he walks backward to the barn door. “I need to help my brothers. Cow shit.”

“Duly noted. Cow shit.”

Ford shoots me a charming smile. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow,” I breathe.

The ache in my muscles is bliss. It feels like I’ve moved two ten-ton boulders after the grueling work today, but I’ve never felt more accomplished.

A cricket chirps outside the kitchen window. The sun set an hour ago, and the buzz on my phone is non-existent.

Like I said, bliss.

I take the small cheeseboard I made for myself and pad across the kitchen floor to my bed. With a satisfied sigh, I sink onto the mattress and kick my legs up, taking in my freshly painted toes. On top of the quilt is a copy ofFrench Vogueand my notepad, scrawled with a what-could-be song.

I could be at the Chateau Marmont drinking bubbly rosé, but this is better. This is real.

For the first time in years, I’m alone. And I’m enjoying it. No pressure. No paparazzi. No social media. Just me writing at long fucking last.

I stare at the bottle of pills on my nightstand. Then, with a nudge of my finger, I flick them into the trash. After today, taking orders from Gavin isn’t on my agenda. They don’t help with the black hole, anyway. All they do is make me tired. Numb.

From the nightstand comes the crackle of the two-way radio. I left it on to give myself a bit of company. Not to mention eavesdropping on ranch conversations is interesting. Who knew there was such a thing as a barn manager?

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