Page 41 of Pretty Wild

Her face turns a cute shade of pink. “I’m embarrassed to admit, I didn’t even know how they made steamed vegetables,” she confesses with an uncomfortable laugh.

“Well, now you do,” I reply, trying not to make a big deal about it, even though her privilege is showing.

The air starts to thicken around us, filling with sexual tension. It seems to accompany us whenever we’re together. It rode shotgun in my truck earlier today, and it’s just as headynow in my kitchen. It’s one of the reasons I invited her to join me tonight.

Knowing I only have a few minutes until I need to cook the fish, I let a lazy grin cover my lips and ask, “So, let’s negotiate this whole bathtub thing.”

13

RYAN

Ican’t stop laughing. It’s to the point I have tears in my eyes, threatening to stream down my face. “He did not!” There’s nothing left on our plates, the food long consumed as we sit at the table and talk.

“Oh, he did. The moment TD opened the door to the locker room, Logan released the baby pig. It went screaming through the room, running over anything and anyone he could.”

I continue to laugh, picturing this cute littleCharlotte’s Webbaby pig running through a locker room, slamming into a room full of burly, sweaty high school football players. “What happened then?”

“Well, the pig stress-shit all over the locker room, and when someone finally caught it, there was quite the mess.”

“How much trouble did they get in?”

He grins. “Well, they had to run the entire football practice, and as soon as it was over, run some more. Then, after the shit sat in the locker room and baked, they had to go in and clean it all up.”

I shake my head, picturing the disgusting scene and wishing I hadn’t. “That’s so nasty,” I say, wiping the moisture out of the corners of my eyes with a napkin.

“I was told it was a pretty gross scene, but neither regret it. In fact, I think they’re weirdly proud of that prank.”

I study him, the crinkle around his eyes as he smiles and the relaxed way he leans back in his chair. Marcus is older than me, that’s obvious. He was approximately my age when he built this cabin. His grandpa helped him build it, and he’s been gone a few years now. That means he’s probably mid-thirties, roughly eight to ten years older than my twenty-six.

“Did you play?” I ask, wondering more about his youth.

He shakes his head. “Nope. I worked. Sports weren’t really my thing.”

“Me either,” I say, making a face. “Well, I didn’t work,” I add with an awkward chuckle. I didn’t exactly need to work either. I grew up with everything I could have possibly wanted. Considering my trust fund is large enough to support a small country, I don’t have to work now, but I can’t imagine my life without what I do. I know it’s not curing cancer or saving endangered animals, but I love it and feel I’m doing something worthy.

“You work now,” he reasons.

“Yeah,” I reply, remembering how cruel the media was when I announced my makeup line. My mom wouldn’t let me dip into my trust fund to back it, so she helped. Once word got out thattheJade Holmes was financing the start-up on my business, they were relentless about digging into my life. They found photos of me at parties and brought to light any and all of my shortcomings. They were ruthless, parading my dating history in front of their viewers and making me out to be some wild child.

“Wanna take a walk?”

His question pulls me out of my head. “Sure.”

Marcus stands up and collects our dirty dishes, setting them beside the sink. “I’ll take care of these later. Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

I take it willingly, letting him lead me toward the French doors at the back of the house. Buddy is hot on our heels, clearly anxious to go outside. “Do we need his leash?”

He drops my hand and holds open the door for me to exit. “No, he doesn’t venture too far away from me. If we were going somewhere new, I’d say yes, but as long as we stay in my backyard, I trust him to stay close.”

The moment we’re outside, Buddy runs over to pee before returning to our side. He picks up a stick along the way and carries it as we head toward a pathway opposite from the one I use to move from his cabin to mine. “Where are we headed?”

“Does it matter?” he asks, hands shoved in his pockets.

I consider his response. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

The temperature drops the moment we’re under the coverage of trees, and I wish I would have brought a sweater. I bring my arms to my chest, running my hands over my upper arms. “Cold?”

“Just a bit chilly.”

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