Page 44 of Wild Sanctuary

But Wyatt hasn’t moved. His hands are still on the wheel, engine off, eyes fixed on nothing.

I turn back to the open door. “You planning to sit there all night?”

Silence. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Wyatt.”

“Go inside, Daisy.” He says it like I’m one more thing on a list of problems he doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

“Not until you tell me what your problem is.”

Now he looks at me. And the rawness in his expression steals my breath.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“You haven’t said two words since⁠—”

“Since what?” His voice is gruff, those green eyes sharp enough to cut. “Since your ex got loud enough for the whole Inn to hear about red dresses?”

The words hit like a slap.

“That’s none of your business, and you know it, Wyatt Hartley.” My voice doesn’t shake, but my hands are an entirely different story. I don’t even know why he’s bringing it up like my personal life matters to him. Half the time he can barely stand to look at me.

“You’re right.” He shoves his door open and gets out of the truck. “It’s not.”

He’s almost to the barn before I find my voice, even though every line of his broad back tells me this conversation is over.

“Tomorrow,” I call after him, proud when my tone doesn’t waver. “The interview. You promised.”

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t slow down either, but I hear it—low and rough, almost lost to the evening air.

“I’ll be there, Daisy-girl.”

I watch him disappear into the barn before turning toward my cabin. My feet drag the whole way back as I repeatedly tell myself the ache in my chest doesn’t mean a God damned thing.

11

WYATT

I’m up before dawn, which isn’t unusual. What’s unusual is the reason.

The interview with Daisy is at nine. I’ve got hours yet, but sleep gave up on me around four, so instead I’m mucking out stalls in the dark like the horses give a damn what time their bedding gets changed.

They don’t. But my hands need something to do, and my mind won’t stop replaying yesterday on a loop.

Since your ex got loud enough for the whole Inn to hear about red dresses?

I drive the pitchfork into the soiled hay harder than necessary.

Six years of keeping a promise to a dead man, and those goddamn feelings haven’t dimmed a single degree.

Son of a bitch!

I sigh as I haul the loaded wheelbarrow out to the pile and dump it, the physical work doing about as much good as spitting on a wildfire.

She probably thinks I’m an asshole. Better that than the alternative. Better she writes me off as rude than start wondering why I give a damn who she’s been seeing.

And tonight, at the fundraiser, I’m going to have to stand in a tent full of people and watch men bid on a date with her, and I’m going to have to act like it doesn’t bother me.