Page 7 of Chasing the Wild
This is no rundown old shack hidden away in the hills.
What I’m seeing is a thing of beauty, designed to blend in with the landscape and not only that but it looks modern as all hell.
As I get out of the car, the scent of hay and wild herbs tickles my nose. Lazy, chirping crickets in the baking sun greet me. Sweet fucking relief, it’s a little cooler up here than down in town, with a crisp wind blowing from the direction of the forested ridge.
How the fuck has Kayce Wilder landed on his feet in a place like this? I was expecting him to be shacked up in someone’s drafty old farmhouse, with a stained couch and mice in the walls.
Not a five-star luxury lodge.
Lettering made of iron hangs above the double doors to the barn, spelling out the letters: D.P.R in bold black set against cedarwood planks.
Devil’s Peak Ranch.
Wide stone steps lead me up to the front door framed by rough pieces of stacked slate in charcoal and gray, and the woody smell mixed with cut grass is divine. Someone has taken a lot of care to create this place and I’m in open-mouthed awe as I reach the imposing front doorstep.
There’s no knocker or doorbell—I’m guessing you don’t need those way out here—so I raise my fist and bang on the wood.
Before I can even drop my hand, the door is yanked open so hard I almost fall into the entranceway.
What greets me on the other side is a wild tangle of curly dark hair, wetted locks that sit against tanned, damp skin, and fearsome hazel eyes.
And the man before me is naked, except for a towel.
Chapter 3
Idon’t know how long I stare. But the gorgeous cowboy from town, the very person who paid for my tank of gas, clutches a towel low on his hips, pinning me with a murderous expression.
Nothing makes sense in my mind.
Why is he here?
What the fuck is going on?
He’s got the door gripped so tight in one hand that I can see white ridges on his knuckles, and he looks about one second from slamming it in my face.
We both seem to be caught in some kind of limbo, staring at each other while our minds try to make sense of this situation. His forehead is creased in a way that tells me this is not a pleasant surprise. In fact, there’s so muchfuck offenergy rolling off his muscled torso that I’m surprised I haven’t been bowled backward down the steps.
This must be his house.
Holy fuck. Is this his ranch?
From the hostile reception I’m guessing he lives out here for a reason. No visitors.
Especially not the unexpected kind.
My mouth is full of sand, and I’m shrinking beneath his glare. Meanwhile, he’s all bronzed skin and a thick chest, with a v extending down below his towel that I definitely should not be tracing with my eyes.
“Layla fucking Birch?!” A slurred shout cuts through the potent tension hanging between us.
My ex-boyfriend, Kayce, barges past the man in the towel like he owns the place. Suddenly, I’m being lifted off the ground in a bear hug and twirled in the air like I’m five years old. “What are you doing here, princess?”
All I want to do is demand to know the same thing. Oh, and this asshole has definitely been day-drinking. Kayce only ever called me that when he’d had a few. Probably me and every other girl riding his dick. I stiffen at the thought of the bitch from the cafe in town.
“Kayce, put me down.” I’m so flustered by what is happening right now I feel like I can’t think straight.
“Oh, shit, sorry. My bad.” He drops me and then slings an arm around my neck, pinning me to his side. My skin crawls with a weird sensation. I know we dated, and we’ve had sex, for god’s sake, but right now, I want his hands off my body.
I don’t want him to touch me so openly.
