Page 74 of Ride the Sky

The first time I saw Wyatt in person, I couldn’t stop staring. He was the cowboy on all those posters I squirreled away. Everything a man represented to me. Masculinity, confidence. He was swagger and charm and strength. I drank it in, got close to him, because I wanted a piece of him. A piece of the man I knew would be my equal. Whether sparring in the ring or real life, he always lit a fire in my blood and kept it stoked.

I watch him a second longer. He moves easily around the kitchen, and for a moment, I hate his long legs, his muscular thighs, his powerful body that works.

“Mornin’,” Wyatt drawls, turning. Seeing me, his gaze travels from my face to my bare legs. A grin tugs at his lips, his blue eyes so bright in the morning sun. “No pants?”

I hiss at him.

He wiggles his brows. “Must be a benefit of marriage.”

I wag a finger at him. “No benefits.” That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks as I hobble my way to the counter and watch him prep breakfast.

“Like a baby.” I examine the stack of mail on the counter. Bills and cards and letters of sympathy. Real world shit I’m not ready to deal with yet.

He snorts. “Bullshit. You had a nightmare.”

“And how do you know that?” I fling back.

He flips a piece of bacon and says casually, “Well, you were screaming and moanin’ because of something.”

My brain flatlines. I avoid eye contact. Like he knows what I did last night. I tell myself he’s just a placeholder for blowing off steam. Anyone will do.

He adds lowly, “Was it about Aiden?”

I blink. “When did I tell you that?”

“In the hospital,” he says, an edge creeping into his voice. “You told me you don’t sleep.”

The heart in my chest tenses. Not ready, never ready, to talk about that asshole. Especially not with Wyatt. Being weak, admitting how I fucked up, is too painful. Too real.

And we don’t do real. We can’t.

I lift a shoulder. “Must have been the meds.”

Wyatt reins in his eyeroll. “How you feelin’?”

I palm the counter, using the leverage to hold myself up. My hip throbs. My hard, staccato breathing echoes in my ears. “I feel old,” I admit. “Old and mangled. I hate it.”

The spatula dips in his hand. “You ain’t, though.”

I don’t look at his face, not wanting to see the sympathy there. Instead, I scan my kitchen. The window that overlooks the backyard. Cheery sage-green cabinets. Wood shelves stacked with little ceramic mugs I picked up at thrift stores.

My attention snags on a bouquet of red roses. “You shouldn’t have.”

Wyatt’s blue eyes flick to me. “I didn’t.” His square jaw works. “Secret admirer. Left this on the porch.” He tosses a card my way.

Brows rising, I slide a finger under the flap and open it.

Get better soon.

Great. Cryptic Instagram messages, now flowers. Two for two for annoying creeps.

I toss the card in the trash. My gaze flits to the flowers. I think about throwing them away too, but instead, I decide I’ll keep them just to spite Wyatt.

Using the countertop as balance, I push myself along the edge until I reach a shelf. There, I grab a vase.

“You like roses?” Wyatt asks as I’m filling the vase with water. There’s a dangerous undercurrent to his voice.

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