Page 138 of Wild As Her

She doesn’t say anything right away, just leans into me, shoulder against my chest, forehead almost brushing my jaw. It’s not dramatic. Not even obvious. But it guts me a little how natural it feels.

I wrap an arm around her, pull her in tight. Her body softens like maybe, just maybe, she knows I mean it when I say I’ve got her. That I always will.

Knowing Granger’s out there trying to twist this story, painting her like she’s the threat? It makes my blood simmer. The guy’s a coward. And worse, he’s dangerous. The fact that he’s still trying, still reaching for any scrap of power over her, it makes me wonder how far he’d go. What kind of man he really is when no one’s watching.

I press a kiss to the top of her head without even thinking. “He’s not stepping foot on this property again. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

She exhales again, slower this time. “I know.”

And I think maybe she’s finally starting to understand this. It’s about time.

“I love it when you get so protective and all broody alpha cowboy, Jack,” she says as she gives me a sexy look.

I pull her into my arms, and wrap my arms around her, “Oh, yeah?”

“Wait until you see my new dress I got to wear to Walker’s party…”

“I can’t wait,” I murmur. I can already see us dancing under the moonlight and not letting her out of my arms.

Chapter 37

Cami

Wishful Drinking by Ingrid Andress, Sam Hunt

There’s something about a night in Bridger Falls under the stars that feels like magic. Maybe it’s the lake, warm and still under the fading sun, a cool breeze coming off the lake. Maybe it’s the way the fireflies drift like glitter through the pine trees. Or maybe it’s the fact that Violet and Walker threw the kind of party you only see in movies, complete with fairy lights, a dock stage, famous musicians from their new label, Red Records, and food so good it makes me want to cry.

I’m barefoot on the grass, already one cocktail in, wearing a borrowed red dress from Jenna that slips over my body like it was made for me. It’s got one strap over my right shoulder, leaving my left shoulder bare. It has a slit up the thigh, and I feel sexy as hell in this dress. I’m going to ask her if I can keep it. When I showed up, Violet swore it would “bring him to his knees.”

She meant Jack. But he’s been across the lawn all night, leaning against a post with a bottle of beer like a cowboy in a cologne ad, doing that broody thing he does, watching me like he wants to worship me and take me home.

And I don’t know which option I want more.

Walker and Violet’s lake house glows with life. Music spills from the stage, currently a group of Red Records artists doing a bluesy cover ofJolene. The smell of hickory-smoked sliders and peach-glazed wings wafts from the catering tables, courtesy of Harvest & Honey, and people are dancing in the grass, slipping out of their shoes, hollering along to the lyrics.

“Cami, come taste this cornbread,” Maggie yells, practically dragging me toward the food.

She’s in a boho dress covered in sunflowers, her cheeks sparkling with glitter she applied herself. There’s a daisy tucked behind her ear, and her hands are full, one holding a bourbon cocktail, the other a tiny plate loaded with a butter-drizzled triangle of cornbread.

I take the bite she offers. It’s still warm, buttery, laced with honey and some kind of secret herb I can’t place.

“Holy hell,” I groan, covering my mouth. “So good.”

“I know,” she says smugly, sipping her drink. “If I wasn’t already married to this town, I’d marry this cornbread.”

Beside us, Mack is double-fisting mini cupcakes and deviled eggs like she’s at an eating competition. “I don’t know what’s in these, but I’m getting seconds.”

Maggie has been making sure everyone eats, while handing out tiny bottles of rosé from a cooler labeledMaggie’s Magic Juice. I’ve already had two. I’m not sure what exactly is in them, but they’re good. Could be dangerous, but who cares. We’re having fun tonight.

On the lawn, Poppy and Ollie sway together, slow-dancing to the next song, which is something dreamy and gravelly sunglive by one of the artists. The stage lights shimmer off the lake behind her, and she looks like she stepped out of a dream, barefoot and golden-haired and singing her soul out.

Poppy’s arms are looped around Ollie’s neck, and he’s got that look on his face, the one that saysI would fight a bear for this woman. His hand drifts low on her back, and her mouth curves like she feels it. Their foreheads brush, eyes locked.

“God, they’re gross,” Mack says around a mouthful of cake. “Are you sure they’re just friends?”

“They’re perfect,” I whisper.

“Yeah, they’re still claiming they’re just friends,” Maggie says and gives me a look like she’s not buying it, either. Poppy and Ollie look very close dancing.

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