Page 83 of Burn the Wild

Her eyes widen. “Birdie?” Her full mouth parts in a smile. “Whatever happened to princess? Honey? Brat?”

Dry-mouthed, I scrape a hand through my hair. The slip-up is damn embarrassing.

“Birdie suits you better.” I tug on her braid. “You came here to give me a heart attack, didn’t you?”

Her smile is soft. “I’m keeping you on your toes, Country Boy.”

Voices sound above us.

“Is she okay?”

“You look familiar? Do I know you?”

Reese flinches as several guests crowd around us.

“No,” I snap. “You don’t know her.” I move closer to Reese, tucking her protectively against my chest.

“I have a kit in the garage. I’ll take care of it,” I tell Sam, wanting Reese away from prying eyes.

“Ford,” she whispers. Worry in her beautiful green eyes.

“I got you, baby.”

She doesn’t argue as I pick her up in my arms and make the trek to the garage.

As soon as we’re inside, I gently place her on the workbench. She waits there while I hunt for a first aid kit.

My heart beats heavily in my ears as waves of pent-up anger sweep over me.

My head is fucked up. I never should have turned her loose on the ranch. I’m responsible for her. Those gates could have crushed her.

Finding nothing, I swear. Slam a drawer.

“You’re acting awful angry, Country Boy.” She sounds amused.

“I’m pissed,” I say, strain evident in my voice as I try to keep my cool.

“At me?”

I blow out a slow breath. “No, Reese, not at you.”

“Well, I’m pissed.” She wrinkles her nose. “I broke my eggs.”

I want to laugh at the grumpy expression on her face. I also want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Hell, she gives me butterflies, but she’s also guaranteed to give me high blood pressure.

“Eggs are the least of your worries.” My eyes land on her bloody arm. “You almost got crushed to death by a fucking gate.”

Finally, I find a first aid kit in a toolbox.

“Let me see.” Gripping her wrist, I extend her arm. The cut isn’t deep, thank Christ. As I reach out to clean it, I run a thumb across her bangles. The thin skin on the inside of her wrist.

Paling, she jerks away. “It’s fine. I’ll do it myself.”

Frustrated, I drop the kit onto the workbench. “Goddamn it, woman, you never let anyone help you, do you?”

With her back to me, she digs into the kit, then haphazardly slaps a bandage on her arm. Shitty work. Just like her attitude.

She sucks in an impatient breath and juts her chin. “I don’t need your help.”

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