Page 4 of Wild For You

Cash Boyd

P.S.: In case you’re thinking of sticking around, get out of my way. Make me breakfast, if you must. But never knock on my bedroom door, don’t talk to me if you see me, and get the hell out of my way. And never talk about God, because I won’t join your cult.

Is this a fucking joke?

Frowning, I fold the note and slowly push it back inside the envelope.

I’ve just unofficially met Cash Boyd. It might only be on paper, but I think my first impression of him is a pretty solid one.

Injured or not, depressed or not, the guy’s a jerk with a capital J. His dad’s description of him probably did him justice.

But there’s also a glimmer of hope…he has a sense of humor.

I have a reputation of being good at what I do, which is probably why Trent Boyd offered me good money to accompany his son on his way to recovery. As a professional, I pride myself in my ability to keep my cool at all times, which is why the note doesn’t deter me from my mission one bit.

I take my time unpacking, stacking my clothes and few belongings neatly in the walk-in closet. I keep my shower short, mostly because I can’t wait to explore the place that will be my home for the next few months. I pile my hair up before I shrug into my work attire—black slacks and a white shirt—all comfortable to work in but not that I look like I’m about to spend a quiet evening on the couch, watching whatever’s on cable.

It’s late afternoon when I head out of my bedroom in search of Cash Boyd.

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