Page 53 of Bunker Down, Baby

Chapter Fourteen

Maple

As much as I’d love to spend the day taming my two feral new acquisitions, Holden the brooding survivalist who probably dreams in Morse code, and Brock, who’s one bicep-flex away from either breaking the bed or me, there’s a rapidly escalating global shitstorm that needs my attention.

The emergency broadcasts are getting uglier by the hour. Turns out the “miracle treatment” for the flu? Not such a miracle. People aren’t dying peacefully in their beds, they’re turning into rabid psychos. Not like zombie zombies, no brain-eating, no dragging a leg and groaning about brains, but more like… deranged raccoons on meth. Scratching, biting, mauling. It’s giving plague rat chic, and I’m not a fan.

So yeah. We need to go get Wade.

Before someone out there with a fever and a baseball bat decides he looks like a chew toy.

Dean and Evan are both coming with me. Because Wade comes with animals. Multiple animals. Plus a fucking tractor. I am not leaving a tractor behind. That would be criminal. Also, I’m not exactly sure how many goats we’re talking about here, but it’s more than one and less than a stampede. Either way, I need bodies and muscle and at least one person with actual vet-adjacent knowledge. Evan drew the short straw on that one.

We’re all piled into my car, which is packed to hell with sedation darts, hay cubes, animal crates, protein bars, and some heavy-duty rope, because I don’t know what kind of day Wade’s having.

The plan is simple. Once we hit the edge of his land, I get out first, channel my inner hot mess again, maybe limp a little for extra flair, and play damsel. Just like I did with Holden. Only this time with more goats. Hopefully Wade still has a hero complex and not, like, a flamethrower. Either way, once I’ve got him nice and dosed, I call in my sexy backup squad to wrangle livestock, secure the tractor, and haul our newest man prize home.

Easy. Fast. Efficient.

And if Wade resists?

Well. He won’t.

I kill the engine a half-mile back and make the rest of the approach on foot. Dean and Evan are waiting behind, out of sight, radio silent unless I call them in with the magic words, farmer down.

Wade’s land looks like a goddamn postcard. Rustic wooden fencing, rolling fields, a barn that’s seen better days but still stands proud, and a weathered farmhouse with white trim and a big wraparound porch that makes me want to crawl up on it and roll around like a cat in the sun. Chickens are pecking along the edge of the coop, three goats are eyeing me like they can smell my intentions, and, yes, thank Christ, the dairy cow is still alive and looking like a whole dairy queen.

It’s quiet. Still. Like the end of a storm.

And then the door creaks open and out steps Wade Colter in all his sun-kissed, sweat-glazed glory.

I freeze.

For a second, my brain completely short-circuits. Because holy shit.

He’s… beautiful.

Not pretty-boy beautiful, not like Evan’s sleek surgeon perfection. No, Wade’s the kind of beautiful that makes your mouth go dry. Like old whiskey and sweat and hay bales. His shoulders are so broad I could pitch a tent on them. His arms are tanned and strong, rolled sleeves hugging biceps that were clearly built doing actual work, not lifting some neon dumbbell in a climate-controlled gym. His dirty blond hair is tousled like he just ran a hand through it, and his warm brown eyes are so soft I want to curl up in them and never leave.

He looks like he could ruin me. Gently.

My knees do a little you’re not ready for this wobble, but I catch myself. Right. Focus.

I tug my cardigan tighter around my shoulders and adopt my best breathy, damsel-in-distress voice. I don’t have to fake the heat in my cheeks, that part’s very real.

“Hi,” I say, blinking up at him like I haven’t already made a whole PowerPoint in my head about what it would feel like to ride his thigh. “Are you sick? Or crazy?”

He blinks. “Come again?”

I stumble forward, wobbly and wide-eyed. “I mean, sorry, I didn’t mean that rude. I just, I’ve been driving for hours. There’s no gas anywhere. No help. And now there’s talk of people going feral, like actual feral, and I swear to God I saw a guy chewing on his steering wheel in the next county over.”

He’s already stepping off the porch. “You’re okay now. Come on inside.”

I blink. That easy?

Wade doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t size me up like Holden or glare like Brock. He just gives me this warm, patient look and waves me toward the house like this isn’t completely insane.

I follow him in, limping just a little for effect. The inside smells like cedar and old books and fresh coffee. Home.

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