Page 129 of Wild As Her

Cami wraps her arm around my waist, eyes still locked on mine.

“Now, can we be done with all of this?” she asks.

I grin. “We’re done.”

She leans up, whispering in my ear, “Good. Because I’m taking you home.”

And just like that, we walk out of the barn.Hand in hand.Together.No cameras orpretending.Just us.

Because in the end, that's what really matters. Not the show, not the ranches, it's her. I want the world to know that she's my everything. I don't care what anyone thinks. She's my heart.

Chapter 34

Cami

Springsteen by Eric Church

Iwake to the warmth of Jack’s hands on my waist and the press of his mouth against the back of my shoulder. Sunlight’s barely stretching across the curtains, golden and soft. Outside, the ranch is still asleep.

But here, it’s just us.

I shift slightly and feel his chest against my back, the heat of him sinking into me. His hand slides up under the hem of his shirt, the one I stole last night after he made me forget my own name.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough and sleepy.

“Mmm,” I hum, eyes still closed. “Is it?”

He laughs softly, then kisses the curve of my neck, his stubble scraping just right.

I roll to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. All sleepy heat and absoluteadoration.

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across my bottom lip. “I never stopped.”

I stare at him for a long beat. Then I pull him down and kiss him like I believe him, because I do. Because I feel it. Because Iknowit now.

And as the sun creeps higher outside the window, we forget everything else.

The only things that matter are lips, skin, tangled sheets, and whispered promises we mean this time.

I’m still floating on the sunrise high of Jack’s hands and his whispered promises when the white SUV pulls into the driveway.

I freeze mid-coffee sip. “Uh, oh.”

Jack, shirtless on the porch like a damn cowboy ad for sin, squints toward the gravel. “Expecting someone?”

“Nope,” I say grimly. “That’s my mother.”

He straightened slightly but didn’t flinch. “Want me to tell her you're busy?”

“Just… let's see what she wants. Behave,” I warn with a smirk.

My mom has been oddly trying. While I am giving her a chance, a part of me is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“No promises,” he mutters with a grin.

The car door opens and out steps Teresa Wilder, hair smooth, outfit crisp for Bridger Falls. Her expression is unreadable as she takes in the porch, the coffee mugs, Jack.

She walks toward us with slow, deliberate steps, like she’s preparing for battle or a funeral. Or maybe both.

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