Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 12

I can’t ignore the burning urge I feel the minute Ford walks away to get Cora settled in for the night. My hand dives into my pocket and I pull my phone out immediately and fire off a text to Ryan.

I stare at the lit screen of the phone, and within a minute, I see three gray dots start to roll. They start. And they stop. Several seconds pass and then they start up again. This pattern continues for much longer than is necessary for a simple answer. But I find myself sitting there waiting for words to pop up all the same.

I have a momentary urge to tell him that it’s site visit not sight visit. But that urge is overrun by my absolute indifference. I don’t bother responding. Instead, I shove my phone back into my pocket with an eyeroll and go back to enjoying the crackling heat of the fire in front of me.

I’m entirely lost in watching the flames dance when Ford settles on the stump next to mine. “Here,” he says gruffly as he wraps a blanket around my shoulders. It catches me off guard that he brought a blanket down from his house just for me.

But I opt not to pester him about it. The food coma has me feeling more mellow than usual.

“That was fun. Thanks for inviting me.” He’s tall enough and the stumps are close enough that our legs line up and press against each other.

But I decide it’s better if I don’t fixate on that.

He chuckles, low and raspy, while we stare at the roaring fire. The lake shimmers in the dark beyond us, and an owl hoots somewhere in the trees over the crackling logs.

“I didn’t invite you. I asked to borrow ingredients, and you invited yourself.”

I smile at that. “Hey, at least I brought beer.”

He reaches for his and takes a deep swig. Somehow, the sound of him swallowing is hyper-masculine. “You could have shown up empty-handed, and we’d have been happy to see you.”

“You mean Cora would have been happy to see me.” I nudge him with my elbow, trying to steer this moment back into playful territory. Because there’s something different about Ford now.

Ten years ago, his intensity was awkward. Kind of endearing, really. Now that intensity is… I don’t know. It makes me squirmy, like I can’t handle having his full attention on me without my skin itching.

“No. I’d have been happy to see you too.”

It’s my turn to take a deep swig of the pale ale I brought from the brewery in town. It’s not especially cold anymore. The heat from the flames has warmed the can, and it’s lost a bit of its fizz. But I swallow that shit like I’m parched in the desert.

“You’re different,” is all I come up with to say.

He leans closer, bumping his shoulder against mine. “So are you.”

“Probably a good thing, eh?” I tease, bumping him back. “Didn’t like me much when we were kids, if I remember correctly.”

His lips lift in a smug smile, gaze still latched to the fire he built with his daughter. Then he turns and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re not remembering correctly, Rosie.”

My heart pounds. I don’t know what to say to that, so I pretend it never came out of his mouth. I think I assigned a deeper meaning to it in my head, and that’s why it made my stomach flip. I likely exaggerated the way my body felt when the words met my ears—the way his voice rumbled deep enough that I could feel it in my chest.

“I think she had fun tonight.” I force the words from my otherwise parched throat, just as I realize all our joking elbows and shoulder nudges have brought us a hell of a lot closer than we should be.

Neither of us moves to pull away. Instead, I find myself face-to-face with him. His dark forest eyes almost glow, like the sun through a broad green leaf in the summer.

I lick my lips and his gaze drops.

“Cora?”

“Yeah. She ate. She laughed. She talked a bit about music. I think…” My gaze races over his face, and I wonder when he got so damn handsome. If he changed bit by bit or if it happened overnight.

Or maybe I’m the one who changed.

I hung around with lots of West’s friends. Hell, I even had crushes on some of them. But with Ford, it was different.

The pull to him was less physical. Something deeper. He was alluring to me. A specimen I’d never encountered. He was intellectual and introspective, but there was a debonair quality about him, even as a gangly teenager.

He was challenging. Smart and cutting and always watching just a little too closely.

A mystery wrapped up in an enigma.

He felt nothing like the boys in this small town. And now? Now he feels like no man I’ve ever met.

“Rosie?” He gives me a verbal nudge and I realize I trailed off while staring at his chiseled, manly features.

I clear my throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think music might be a good common ground for you guys. She talked a bit about it today when I picked her up. I think she needs to feel like she’s not a burden to you.”

He nods and continues staring at me.

My skin does that awful itching thing, and I wonder if I’m allergic to Ford Grant. His proximity gives me a rash.

I touch my palm to my cheek and his eyes follow.

Apparently, a fever too.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” My words are a whisper in an already hushed night.

His gaze meets mine, and this time he’s the one who licks his lips.

I watch the motion before adding, “You should stop.”

His dark brows drop low on his forehead, two small lines popping up between them like he’s concentrating. “I know.”

My fingers press into the sides of the aluminum can in my hand hard enough that I hear it crinkle. It draws my gaze down. I can’t handle staring at him anymore anyway.

“Are you single?” The second the words leave my lips, I hate myself for saying them. They’re enough to make him draw away ever so slightly.

I hear the bristling of his stubble against his palm as he scrubs a hand over his mouth.

“Yes. Are you?”

I keep my eyes low; my breathing feels labored. Like it’s hard work to keep from collapsing under the weight of his stare.

“I don’t know.”

And it’s true. I’ve spent so long being a people pleaser— avoiding making any waves—that I’m terrified of disappointing the people I care about. But I know I’m done. I’ve finally come to terms with it. But telling Ford before I tell Ryan would be shitty. Where Ford and my personal life are concerned, vague is better. Safer.

He stands, calmly unfurling his powerful body, before stepping right in front of me and bending down to my level. His lips are a breath away, his eyes so deep and searching I can’t hold his gaze.

Slowly, his hand comes up to grip my ponytail—just like he did the other night. But tonight, with one slow tug, he guides my head back so I’m forced to look at him. “Next time you ask me that, make sure you are.”

Then he turns and walks away. Leaving me stunned and reeling even more out of control than I already was.

And when I get back to the bunkhouse, I’m too amped up to sleep. I thought the walk back would clear my head, but it only gave me time alone to fixate on our interaction. So, I pull out my old diary and hunker down for a walk down memory lane. Ryan never calls and I barely even notice. I’m far too invested in reading my teenaged musings on Ford Grant.

I laugh, I cry, and I fall asleep with the journal in my hand and my bedside lamp still lit.