Page 3 of Wild Love
“That’s fine. It’s really just Sebastian and me, assuming he’s in town, and then we’ve got you?—”
“You haven’t got me?—”
“And then we’ve got Crazy Clyde.”
“Who’s Crazy Clyde? I don’t think you can just roll around calling people crazy anymore.”
“He’s the dude who lives on the other side of the mountain—pretty much a hermit—because he believes in every conspiracy theory known to man. His stories are my favorite. And he’ll introduce himself as Crazy Clyde, so I’ll let you be the one to correct him.”
I blink at my friend. This sounds like my nightmare.
“I’m not fucking bowling with you, West.”
He scoffs and dismisses my words with a hand flick. “You say that now. But you always said no to my shenanigans as a kid too. And then you’d be there. Emo hair in your eyes, pushing those oversized glasses up the bridge of your nose.” He grins at me, perfect white teeth flashing bright next to his rough stubble. “Moody scowl on your face. Probably some obscure book of poetry clutched under your arm.”
I can’t help but snort out a laugh at his accurate description as I shake my head. “Get fucked, Belmont.”
“Look at you now?—”
My pointer finger aims straight at him. “Don’t even say it.”
As he speaks, his hands make sweeping, dramatic movements through the air. “World’s Hottest Billionaire.”
“I hate you.”
“Nah. You love me. I’m the sunshine to your grumpy.”
My brows pinch together. “What?”
“It’s a thing in romance books?—”
A knock at the door cuts him off, and we both turn to look across the barn, toward the rickety front door down a narrow hallway that turns sharply into the kitchenette.
“Who would be here?” West whispers like we’re in trouble.
Maybe we are. I’ve only been in town for a short while, working on the main house, so I have no idea who it could be. My sister Willa would barge in unannounced. My parents would call. My best friend is sitting across from me.
Truth is, I have no one else in my life who cares about me enough to drive all this way.
I keep my circle tight and trust few. The allure of Rose Hill is that the paparazzi don’t want to spend all day driving tomaybeget a shot.
“I don’t know.” I shrug and West’s eyes go wide as an owl’s as he shrugs back.
Another knock.
“I can hear you whispering in there,” a feminine voice I don’t recognize calls from the other side of the wooden door.
My head goes to Rosie first, but this voice sounds too young to be hers. So, with a heavy sigh, I stride toward the door and yank it open.
Before me stands a girl. She’s wearing black ripped jeans. Black Chuck Taylors. An oversized Death From Above 1979 T-shirt—one of my favorite bands. The garment boasts a few intentionally distressed holes across it. Her pitch-black hair is tied in two braids, one down each shoulder, complemented with straight bangs in a slash across her forehead. All of this is topped off with an unimpressed expression on her face. The top loop of a JanSport backpack dangles from her fingers.
I don’t know how old she is. Young. Looks like that awkward, confusing age just before you become ateenager—based on her sullen stare and the sizable zit on her chin. She crosses her arms and drags her gaze from my face down to my feet before making her way back up.
“Who are you?” I don’t mean to sound like a dick when I say it. After all, she’s just a kid.
Her lips flatten, and she blinks once, slowly. “Your daughter, dickhead.”
Now it’s my turn to blink slowly. I hear West’s chair roll across the hardwood and his heavy steps as he approaches.
