Page 12 of Wild Eyes
“Like, when you aren’t feeling peopled out. No pressure. Ball is in your court.”
No pressure. Those two words make me blink harder. They hit me in the heart. I feel like I could crumble under the weight of the pressure in my life. The expectations.
What would it be like to go for a drink with someone for fun? Not because it would be beneficial to be seen with them or because of the status that comes with being associated with them.
All I can do is nod and choke out, “Thanks, I’d like that.”
A wide, genuine smile spreads across her face. “Great! Now let’s find the man of the house and let him know there’s a guest staying at his hotel.”
With that, she strides out of the bunkhouse and into the sun like none of this is out of the ordinary.
Me? I feel like I’ve crash-landed on another planet. And we all know the appropriate response when you crash-land on an alien planet is to act like a local.
My phone dings and I pull it from my purse. Another Google alert. A brand-new mention of my freshly minted ex out at Nobu with some hot model. The headline reads “Skylar Scorned” and my stomach sinks and my throat goes tight.
I don’t want to care.
So I shove my phone back in my bag, tip my nose up, and follow Rosalie out into the warm summer day—checking on Cherry, who is comfortably dozing in the air-conditioned car—and up a dirt path that leads to a slightly older-looking farmhouse. The sight instantly soothes my nerves.
It exudes the lived-in cozy that I’ve only seen in movies.
My steps slow as I take in the white-painted wood and the exposed redbrick chimney that has mortar squishing out from between each block. Charming rust-colored shingles cover the roof.
This place looks like a proper childhood home, or at least what I always imagined one to be like. The wraparound deck has patio furniture dispersed on every side and children’s toys tossed in for good measure—a bike, a skateboard, a bottle of bubbles, there’s even a plastic tea set sitting on top of a small table. Beside the house, there’s a gigantic elm tree, its branches holding a rope swing swaying gently in the summer heat.
I itch to sit on it.
“Follow this way.” Rosie waves me ahead, and with a quick smile, I spring into motion and hustle through the yard to her side. There’s no paved road or perfectly spaced stepping stones. We go straight across the yard and past the house.
The air smells like freshly cut grass and wet rocks from the lake, but the farther we press into the property, the more it smells…worse.
I wrinkle my nose. “What is thatsmell?”
Rosalie snorts right as a barn and other outbuildings come into view. “Horses. My brother is a professional trainer. Runs his business out of the barn here. You get used to the smell. I actually like it. You’ll get there eventually.”
My eyes bug out at her, and she laughs.I like her. This girl who touches cobwebs with her bare hands, feeds a wild mouse, and likes the smell of horse manure.
“Ah! There he is,” she says. “The man of the hour.”
And yup.
There. He. Is.
“West!”
Weston Belmontstands shirtless, his back to us, next to a horse that is tied to a fence. He’s hosing it off, making its bright reddish coat turn dark and slick.
And I instantly know why his skin looked so tan through that tiny hole in his shirt.
“Rosie Posie, now’s not a good time.” He barely reacts. Stays turned away, all his muscles rippling and bunching as he reaches up to carefully wet the horse’s mane.
Beyond him is a white and red barn that matches the house. Then there are pastures and paddocks and more buildings that I have no clue about.
“Need to get this girl all cooled down and still somehow make it to two different summer camps if I plan to pick the hooligans up on time.”
“I can always go get them.”
He shoots his sister a surprised look from over his shoulder, blue eyes flashing in the sun. And suddenly I can see the resemblance clear as day. How did I not take one glance at this woman and wonder if they were related?
