Page 87 of Burn the Wild

Dream girl. My fucking dream girl.

Breathing hard, I kiss her temple before slowly slipping out and lowering her back onto her feet. She sways once, then smiles.

Need has me gathering her against me. I cup her cheek and stroke a thumb over her pouty lips. Searching her eyes, I take in every inch of her gorgeous face. “You good, Birdie?”

“I’m good.” A rosy flush stains her cheeks. “You?”

“Better than.” I yank up my jeans and grab a clean paper towel off the workbench. After wiping the mess from her thighs, I help her get dressed, then settle her onto a stool.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say, nodding at the first aid kit. “And that includes the arm.”

With her lips pursed, she listens instead of argues.

As I clean and bandage her arm, Reese looks up at me. “So…what does this mean?” She bites her lip, seeming reluctant. “One time, right?”

My heart rate kicks up, the idea like a detonation in my chest.

It’s then that I realize I’m a fucking fool if I think I can stay away from her.

I shrug. “Could keep it casual.”

Her face lights up. “Sure,” she agrees. “No strings.”

Thank Christ. The relief I feel at keeping this going is borderline embarrassing.

Hell, it looks like red flags and beautiful girls are destined to run in my DNA.

Satisfied her arm is properly bandaged, I snip the end of the gauze. “Just friends for the summer,” I say, taping the bandage.

She giggles. “Friends. Do we shake on it?”

I laugh, lean down, and kiss her lips. “Bluebird, I think we just did.”

Who knew that sunlight could clear the mind of its troubles? Or that a shortage of whiskey and midnight dips in the lake could work wonders. That watching a bare-chested, broody cowboy hauling hay would bring its own sort of peace. Oh, and the sex.

All the sex.

The summer heat makes people do all kinds of crazy things. Like me, for example. Doing Ford Montgomery.

A month ago, I was surviving. And now? Now I feel relaxed for the first time in my life. My credit card came through. I have my first paycheck. MoneyImade. A PI is on the hunt for my contract. Thanks to Ford.

Ford.

I bite my lip, watching Ford and Wyatt toss hay bales with pitch-perfect precision. As I pass by on my way to the chicken coop, I catch Ford’s eye, and he tilts his cowboy hat, giving me that charming smile.

I flush.

Birdie.

He calls me Birdie.

A crank turns on in my heart, like it’s pumping extra blood, winding up emotions I thought I’d buried. Emotions—no chance of shutting those off.

Because Ford is a winning combination. Funny and sexy, confident without the cockiness. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. I always laugh when I’m with him, and I haven’t done that in a long time.

Still, we’re not anything serious. We’re doing casual naked things for the summer. For the feral horniness that comes over me whenever I’m around him. For the plot.

I can live with that. I need that. When I’m with Ford, he makes me forget. He’s a steady, reliable, handsome distraction in my life. When I’m with him, I don’t think about my music, my contract, or my hovering black hole. I think about myself.

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