Page 42 of Wild Then Wed
“You have a nice laugh.”
I scoff, still trying to pull myself together. “That’s not a thing. No one has a nice laugh.”
He grins. “Someone totally can. And you do.”
I could saythank youlike a normal person. But instead I go with, “Whatever.”
His smile grows like that just amused him.
I look back out the window and stare as if the snow falling outside is fascinating. “What about you? Are you close with your family?”
He nods once. “Pretty close to my mom. And my siblings.”
“And your dad?”
He shrugs. “Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
There’s a beat where he doesn’t answer. Just keeps his eyes on the road. Then—
“Depends on the day. On how many hours he’s worked. Whether or not he’s arguing with the county over some zoning bullshit. He’s a good dad—don’t get me wrong—but he’s…a lot.Stubborn. Sharp when he’s tired. Doesn’t always know when to soften up.”
I nod slowly. “So basically, he’s a rancher.”
Sawyer lets out a short laugh, nodding again. “Exactly.”
I glance over again, but he’s looking straight ahead, jaw set, mouth still twitching like he’s somewhere between a smile and a sigh.
And I don’t know why, but something about that makes me feel…less alone. Like maybe we both grew up learning how to read a room before walking into it.
The driveway curves around what looks more like a mansion than a house. There are more windows than any home could possibly need. Definitely more square footage than any of the Wilding Ranch bunkhouses. Possibly more than the Wilding Ranch, period.
Sawyer puts the car in park and cuts the engine. Then he turns to me, almost sheepish. “Just a heads-up—it’s gonna be a lot.”
I look at the house and snort. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve got a whole herd roaming around in there.”
He laughs, short and real. “That’s one way to put it.”
I reach for the door handle, and his voice is sharp. “Don’t you dare open that.”
I freeze, my hand mid-reach. “Are you serious?”
He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt. “Dead.”
“I can open my own door, damn it!” I call after him as he jogs around to my side, boots crunching in the snow.
He opens it with a flourish. “I know. But I don’t want you to.”
I step out slowly, arms crossed. “You’re deranged. Like, you might actually need to seek professional help.”
He grins. “Most people would say thank you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Most people don’t get yelled at for touching their own door handles.”
His smile widens, all smug. “You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes and start toward the front steps. Before I even reach them, I can hear the chaos pouring through the walls—people laughing, someone yelling, what might be a blender going at full speed. The front door opens before we even get to it and I catch a glimpse of something—or someone—flying down the hallway at warp speed.
