Page 28 of Wild For You

Chapter Nine

Erin

After my conversation with Ally, I decide to spend the rest of the day in my room, not least because I can’t trust my judgment around Cash Boyd.

A part of me can’t stop wondering what would have happened if I allowed more than just a kiss.

Would we have been able to stop?

Would he still have wanted me to leave?

No one’s ever asked me whether he could kiss me. Not the way Cash did, anyway, with forceful determination and the kind of desire that only managed to ignite my own flame of want. And certainly never a guy like him, who can make me feel discombobulated with a single glance.

I’ve also never enjoyed kissing a man as much as I’ve enjoyed kissing him, losing myself in the moment, forgetting the where and when. My mouth is still tingling whenever I press my fingers against my lips, as though he’s somehow seared himself into me, branding my body, preparing me for more to come.

I go to bed thinking of him, consumed by the memory of his knowing lips against mine, contrasted by the rough sensation of his stubble grazing my cheeks. I search for the quiet only sleep can provide, but his presence infiltrates even my dreams, haunting me, taunting me, punishing me for being so weak.

Even in my dreams, I want him. And after our kiss, I seem to want him even more.

The theoretical part of my brain tells me that I should have pushed him away. However, the chemical part of me, the one that gets all of my juices flowing, asks me to do the opposite. It’s the latter part that I fear most because it renders me unpredictable.

I spend the following morning gardening while chatting with Margaret, who’s just as eager for the company as I am, albeit for different reasons.

She isn’t just slowly turning into a nice diversion from my consuming thoughts about Cash, she’s also becoming a friend. Maybe because she reminds me of my dear, sweet Grandma with her good nature and non-inquisitive nature.

It’s early evening when I return from the greenhouse, my body tensing at hearing the angry voices echoing through the hall.

“I made myself clear that I don’t need help. I can manage on my own.” Cash’s voice booms from the kitchen, followed by clattering pots and cutlery.

Holding my breath, I tiptoe down the hall, unsure whether to turn around and give him privacy or storm in to make sure he’s all right.

“I’ve traveled all the way from Florida to see you. You don’t get to tell me whether I can help you or not, Cash Boyd.” The woman’s voice sounds just as angry and forceful. I flinch at the impact she has on me, even though I’m not even the target of her wrath.

She doesn’t sound like Margaret. Is it his girlfriend? Wife? I haven’t seen a ring on his finger, but that doesn’t mean a thing.

My heart gives a sharp pang at the thought of them fighting because of our kiss.

God.

I’m such a slut.

“Fine. Suit yourself, Shannon. But I’m telling you—”

“Don’t you dare! I promised on your mother’s grave I’d make sure you boys don’t get into shit. And what you’re doing is beyond shit. It might even be the shittiest stunt you’ve pulled so far.”

“Leave my mother out of this,” Cash yells. “She would have known to—”

I flinch at the sound of a slap. I really hope they’re not hitting each other. The woman laughs, cutting him off. “She would have known to slap some wits into you for being an arrogant idiot, Cash. Getting on that bull was idiotic enough. But being a jerk about it and getting on everyone’s nerves by insisting that you don’t need help”—she pauses, emphasizing the last few words—“is the icing on the cake. Now get out of my way, or I’ll do as Lizzy would have done if she were still here. She might have let you use such a tone with her, but you’re not doing it with me. My sister’s probably thanking me from Heaven right now for teaching you some manners.”

Is she his aunt? I stare at the door, wondering.

Something clatters to the floor, the sound reverberating off the walls. Startled, I take a step back. An instant later, Cash storms out—well, more like stumbles out, his beautiful face a mask of annoyance and pain.

He barely acknowledges me as he hurries past with unsteady steps, his leg in a weird angle, mumbling something that sounds like, “Get that woman the hell out of my house.”

I stare after him as he turns the corner, wondering what’s going on. Should I get mixed up in this? Whomever he’s been fighting with, it’s none of my business, and yet it is because he’s my patient and I’m supposed to keep him focused on regaining the full mobility of his leg.

Which hasn’t been an easy task so far.

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