Page 4 of Wild Daddy

She also wanted a case of my syrup for the tourist shop. Started as a hobby but who the fuck knew, people will pay a hundred dollars a bottle for Boone’s Wildfire maple flavor.

It was a simple plan. Grab a drink, drop off cards and the syrup, maybe charm a few guests, and head home before anyone notices the guy in flannel smelling like creek water and pine tar doesn't belong with this crowd.

I left a batch of syrup straining when I left and my worn copy of Call of the Wild sitting on the coffee table. Pretty much a perfect evening for me but instead, I followed the call of potentially new customers here to the lodge and now my dick is hard and I’m seeing everything through a veil of pink.

I followed my dick when it pointed toward that little dark-haired dash of a girl heading for the bathroom outside the wedding reception where people spend more than most people make in a year to have their rustic dreams come true.

Now, here I am, back at the bar nodding for a refill with the scent of vanilla perfume clinging to my shirt and the memory of those soft little sounds she was making echoing in my head wondering how the fuck I’m not going to nail her against every bolder on the fucking mountain.

She took off like her dress was on fire, leaving me feeling the weight in my balls like never before and a growing tension in my chest wondering if she’s okay.

Christ.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to get my bearings back. The smart thing would be to drive back to my cabin like none of this happened. Forget about soft curves and wide brown eyes and the way she whispers "nineteen years of playing it safe" like it's a fucking personal challenge for me.

The problem is, I've never been accused of being particularly smart. I conveniently lost most of my report cards before I could show my mom but she never cared. She always told me smart isn’t what shows up on a piece of paper and having a good heart and a strong work ethic would take me as far as any diploma.

She loved me and my brothers in a way that I know now is rare and without her, we would all probably be in prison or dead. I hated school and it hated me. I spent more time in detention or the principal’s office than I did in class. The only thing about my education I’m thankful for is learning to read. I hate television and reading takes me out of my head and to places I’ll never go.

But, the only place I want to be right now is wherever she is so with a little whiskey fire burning in my belly, I stomp into the reception, passing a few twenty-something females with glazed eyes and offers of room keys but I’m on the hunt for something they don’t have.

I find my prey, half hidden by the stacks of silver wrapped boxes on the gift table as I ease into a shadowed corner in the massive banquet hall. She looks confused and out of place which does absolutely nothing to cool the fire she's started in my gut. There a flush on her cheeks I like to think I put there and I get a odd warmth in in my chest at the way she keeps touching her lips.

I press my back against the wall, watching as the bride comes her way, grabs her hands and pulls her into some kind of excited conversation. I hang back, nursing my second whiskey and memorizing every curve and detail of this girl who's just turned my world upside down with one reckless kiss.

She's too young. Too soft. Too educated for a man like me who lives in the woods and makes his living keeping city people alive in places that could kill them. Everything about her screams complications I don't need.

But when Sarah says something that makes her laugh, she throws her head back with this forced sounding cackle that's just a beat too loud, a second too long. As though she’s thinking of how to react instead of just reacting.

The other bridesmaids standing around roll their eyes in that way people do when someone doesn't follow the script. The bride doesn’t though. She pulls her closer giving the other pink clad women a sneer, and something primitive and protective stirs in my chest.

I'm still watching when my phone buzzes. I release a long exhale, cell phones are a necessary evil but one I could just as easily live without. I draw it from my back pocket, check the screen and see it’s a text from my brother Jack.

Jack: How's the wedding? Any city girls need some specialized training from the grumpy local adventure guide?

I stare at the message, then follow the dark-haired beauty who's now moved to the head table and is stacking plates like she's getting paid for it. A young server slides up next to her, his hand brushing hers as he takes the dishes away with some bullshit smile.

She goes pink smiling back in that forced way she has, while my hands clench around my phone hard enough to crack the screen, because I’m not close enough to wring his fucking neck. The little shit is taking his time about it too, leaning in closer than necessary to whisper something that makes her duck her head.

Me: Something like that.

Jack: Jesus Christ. You’re actually serious? You didn’t get kicked out for picking a fight with some guy whose only crime is wearing a suit?

I growl.

Me: Fuck off, Jack. You’re hardly Mr. Civilized.

Jack: Bring her to dinner Sunday. You’ll be back from your booking, right?

I nearly choke on my whiskey. The only time we bring anyone else to our Sunday dinner’s is if we are one foot down the aisle with them. Jack was the first to bring a woman to our weekly festival of food and ball busting and he’s as whipped as a man can get but also as happy.

Me: Yeah, I’ll be back, now go fuck off.

Jack: Fine, but bring a couple bottles of syrup on Sunday. Delaney’s fucking addicted to your hundred dollar a bottle maple sugar concoction.

Me: Got it. Gotta go.

I answer then shove the phone back in my pocket.

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