Page 8 of An Unfinished Memory

“And you only answered two.”

“Three, technically.” The corner of his mouth twitched. I was supposed to be mad at him, dang it. I wanted to lick those almost-smiling lips. “So I’m owed one more real answer. How are you doing?”

I caught myself before putting my head on that solid ball of muscle capping his shoulder. For such a strong man, he was a good cuddler. The few times he’d been around to cuddle. “I’m fine. My business is growing. I’m making friends.”

He cocked a brow. A spark of worry was in his eyes. I let him think some of those friends were guys. I was friendly with some men I’d met, but Aggie, Tova, and Vienne were who I meant. They were my lifeline.

“So, why’d you come?” I asked again.

He scanned the dissipating crowd. A raindrop plopped into my hair. I blinked up, but there were no more drops.

“Eliot texted me.”

“Okay?” He still didn’t reply, and I kept pushing. I wasn’t even sure why I needed to hear the answer. “Everyone’s home already. You had to know you wouldn’t get here until close to midnight.” What time was it anyway?

“I knew it’d be late.”

His stilted answers were aggravating. “Spill it, Wilder.”

I was in the tractor beam of his dark gaze. “He sent a pic. I saw you dancing.”

I went rigid, but that didn’t stop him from handling me like a well-behaved filly. “You came here to cockblock me.”

Fire lit his eyes more than the lights getting dismantled around the stage. His gaze dropped to my lips. “No.”

Another raindrop hit my cheek, cooling the growing heat of my anger.

I knew when he was lying. He rarely did, and it was usually over stupid shit, like forgetting to take the garbage out. He’d play it off like the garbage guy came earlier than usual, when really, he forgot. And each time he was in the middle of his claim, his gaze would drop to my cheek or my mouth. Like he couldn’t quite look me in the eye.

“You got jealous,” I said. Incensed, I gawked at him, also hating the thrill coursing through me. “And you came to make sure I didn’t go home with anyone.”

“You want to fuck Jennings?” he asked, point-blank, like I was a teen, and he was asking me if the beer was mine.

“Remember when I said it was none of your business?” I asked sweetly, blinking against the rapidly increasing rain.

His shirt was turning translucent where rain was soaking the material. “He’s not your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”Hewas my type. My only type. I was trying to broaden my horizons, but the effort waspathetic.

“I know when you’re grimacing because your dance partner sucks.”

“I’m not a good dancer.”

He snorted. “Neither was that guy.”

His attitude infuriated me. He couldn’t be bothered to make it to Crocus Valley in time to see his family perform, but he could come interfere with my life?

“I can’t believe you.” I pushed away from him. Blinking rapidly, I was grateful the rain would mask the tears gathering in my eyes. Why did my ex-husband have to be so hard to get over?

And while I was at it—why’d he have to be so good-looking? Why’d he have to move the way he had sex—in perfect rhythm, knowing exactly what I needed? And why did his dick have to be so big?

I stomped away.

“Sutton.” Wilder grabbed my arm, but I flung him off. His boots hit the pavement hard behind me. Good thing he’d snuck up on me. I’d have a harder time walking away if I’d seen him stalking toward me and Jennings in all his rugged country-boy glory. He was in cowboy boots and jeans. The things denim did to his ass should be illegal. They should come with a warning: hormonal disruption imminent.

But then, my hormones were already disrupted. Or I’d have little Wilders running around, and I would’ve been tied to Buffalo Gully forever.

He caught up with me, lightly touching my elbow, a flash of electricity pulsating between us. “Come on, Sutton.”

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