Page 26 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

I take a steadying breath and double-check the shopping list on my phone.

Right then. Guess it’s time to put my big girl pants on and face the Dark Knight of Wildbrook Hollow.

Stepping outside, the dry hot air hits me, adding to the sweaty anxious mess I already am. Wade is waiting beside his black pick-up trust, one leg bent, and his signature scowl planted firmly on his face.

He’s swapped his earlier sweat-soaked work clothes for something that manages to be worse. A black T-shirt that isn’t technically tight, but with arms like his, sticks to his body anyway. A dark denim vest layered over it, a bandana knotted around his broad neck, and a hat different from his usual battered work Stetson.

As I approach, he swings open the passenger door, nodding for me to get in.

I square my shoulders, ready to haul my short-ass self into the truck. His calloused hand lands on my bare shoulder, and I freeze.

“Ready for round two?” His voice drops to that low tone that seems to be reserved exclusively for my ears. Something that is apparently becoming a habit. Great.

Around us, the ranch is still alive with noise. Horses nickering in the distance, ranchers shouting directions at each other, and cows lowing. But here, right next to him, everything feels annoyingly intimate, like it’s just us and the rest world don’t exist.

I give him what Iris calls my “Callaghan look”—the one where I stare intensely like I am mentally hexing him, followed by a dismissive eye roll. Then I shrug his hand off like it burns, haul myself into the passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt in record speed.

We cannot repeat what happened last time.

Wade slides in behind the wheel, the truck dipping slightly under his weight. Within seconds, we’re rolling down the dirt track that cuts through the ranch. The tyres crunch over gravel as the fence line slowly drifts away. Officially enroute to town.

Or so I assume because I still don’t know where the hell anything is. For all I know, he could be driving me into the middle of nowhere to kill me, which honestly feels preferable to the suffocating silence filling the space between us.

It’s worse than the first journey. And sure, most of the blame lays with my own idiocy—but he’s hardly blameless. Why the hell did this man just stand there last night and watch? That's not exactly the behaviour of someone who supposedly can't bear my presence.

Now the question is, do I address the elephant in the pick-up truck? Or do I pretend like lines haven’t been crossed?

The inside of my mouth hurts from how hard I’ve been biting it, one of those stupid habits I can’t break. Anything to keep me from blurting out something reckless.

As I stare outside the window, letting my brain become an overbearing mess of questions, the small town of Wildbrook Hollow begins to materialise. We pass an enormous isolated honky-tonk bar on one of the roads leading into town, its large unlit sign reading The Lone Coyote. Quiet now, but I bet that when the sun sets, and the cowboys come out to play, that’s the place to be.

We make a sharp left, revealing the main street, and it’s exactly how I imagined it. Historic brick buildings line both sides of the wide street, their facades marked with rustic, hand-painted signs advertising everything from Wildbrook Botanicals to The Saddle & Supply Co. Some storefronts are hidden under wooden walkways held up by weathered posts, creating little pockets of shade. Small trees dot the sidewalks between iron lampposts and planter boxes full of wildflowers. It’s a quintessential small American town. It’s beautiful.

Wade reverse-parks into a diagonal space along the main street with an ease that makes my motor coordination skills look tragic as fuck. My eyes lock on the hand that grips the handbrake tightly, causing those prominent veins to pop beneath his skin. With a firm tug, he shifts his entire body to face my direction, snapping my focus back to his face and away from the thoughts about how his hand would be an excellent necklace.

“Here.” Wade pulls out a small white envelope from the inside of his denim vest pocket and holds it out to me.

I blink at it. “What’s this?”

“Money for what you need. I'd suggest Buck's down the road, he sells proper boots that won’t hurt your feet while working.”

I stare at the envelope, confused. “I’ve just been paid, Mr Carter. I don’t need you buying me anything.”

“Call it uniform allowance if it makes you feel better,” he mutters with a bite in his tone. “But I'm darn tired of watching you hobble around like you're walking on broken glass in those tragic excuses for boots.”

And here’s me thinking I was being discreet about my daily foot torture. Clearly not.

The last thing I want right now is to prolong being this close to him, so I accept the envelope with what I hope passes for a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Carter. That's very kind of you.”

What the fuck. Who is this Downtown Abbey version of me? Sounding all prim and proper.

“I've got errands to run.” He's talking faster now, like he's just as desperate to put space between us. “You go do what you need to. I'll find you when I'm finished, but there's no rush. Get what you need, explore a bit. But for God's sake, get those boots.”

I nod mutely, not trusting myself to form actual words without making this even more awkward than it already is. I turn toward the door when his voice stops me cold.

“Oh, and Maeve.”

I twist back to find him considerably closer than he was mere seconds ago, close enough that my entire body goes rigid.