Page 80 of Burn the Wild

Reese.

It’s Reese.

I latch onto the familiar tune—Hank Williams, 1952. One of my favorites. The mournful melody fills my bedroom.

That’s when I realize the button must be stuck from our conversation last night. Our MO for the last two weeks. We’ve talked about everything under the sun and then some. Her favorite color is pink, her middle name is Elisabeth, and Paris is her favorite city in the world, but I still don’t know why she’sreally here or much about her past. Which is fair. I haven’t given her anything about Savannah or the shit I’ve done. Some things are better left in the dust.

That’s not to say I’m not damn curious.

My hand comes to my chest, rubbing at the sting. But it soon eases when I focus on Reese.

Shifting on the mattress, I close my eyes and listen.

My heart pumps hard, and I can’t catch my breath. For a moment, I’m paralyzed by a desire I don’t know what to do with.

Fuck. That voice.

It’s clear in her videos and on the radio that she can sing. But I’ve never heard her voice like this before. Like some old-time yodeling cowgirl. Husky and sweet. Goddamn beautiful.

Bluebird.

She’s a fucking bluebird.

Soon Reese’s voice mixes with the sound of running water.

I blink myself awake.

The shower. Reese naked. My dick perks up. I picture her wet, soaping those perfect breasts of hers. Blonde hair stuck to her cheek. That pink mouth—

“Hey, y’all hear that?” Wyatt’s drawl cuts in, breaking me out of my reverie. “Someone’s singing.”

Charlie grunts. “Ain’t me, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“Ford?” Davis says. “You there?”

Gritting my teeth, I jerk up in bed.

“Get off her fucking channel,” I snarl. It feels like an invasion of her privacy. No one hears my bluebird but me.

I wait until I’m sure the line’s clear, then I disconnect.

Fuck me.

I get out of the bed so fast it’s embarrassing.

Time to start my day. Time to see Reese.

The arched brow Davis gives me the moment I step foot in the Bullshit Box already has me pissed off.

“What?” I grunt.

“You gave her a radio?” Davis asks. His own two-way radio sits on his desk next to a cup of coffee.

“Yeah, I did. You got a problem with it, take it up with HR.”

“We don’t have HR,” Charlie says dryly.

I settle at my desk and shuffle through files and paperwork. The bane of our existence. Any of us would rather be out in the fields.

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