Page 48 of Wild Sanctuary

I move toward the door, but she’s faster, stepping into my path to block the exit. The top of her head is level with my chest, so she has to crane her whole neck back to glare at me. Yet she does it with the confidence of a woman who has never once considered that her size might be a disadvantage.

“No. We’re not.”

“Daisy, move.”

“I’m not moving.”

The words land like a challenge. Like a dare. And my chest catches fire—though whether it’s fury or want, I couldn’t tell even if a gun was pointed at my head. She’s close enough that I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the way her jaw is set so hard a muscle is jumping beneath the skin. Close enough that the scent of her shampoo is cutting through the coffee and the leather and the dust of my own office, the same way it did in the barn, the same way it did in the truck, and my body is starting to learn this scent the way it learns weather—instinctively and without permission.

“This isn’t a game.”

“You’re right, it’s not. It’s my job.” She doesn’t budge. Five foot nothing of stubborn, blocking my only exit like she has any chance of stopping me if I really wanted to leave. “And you agreed to this interview. You said Friday. You promised.”

“I answered your questions.”

“You gave me nothing!”

“Then write that.” I can feel my composure cracking, the careful walls I’ve built starting to splinter. “Write that Wyatt Hartley is an uncooperative asshole who wouldn’t give you what you wanted. I don’t care.”

“You do care. I’ve seen it—with your family, with the crew.” She takes a step closer, and now there’s barely a foot between us. “So why am I the only one who gets the stone wall?”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “You’re not⁠—”

“I am.” She cuts me off. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You can barely look at me.” Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t back down. “Then yesterday you had plenty to say.” I push down a flinch as her eyes search my face. “You’ve barely spoken to me all week, and when you do, you throw a private conversation with my friend in my face?”

The word hits like a fist to the gut. Friend. The one with benefits.

“It’s not my business.” My voice comes out flat. “You’re right.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Drop it, Daisy.”

“No.” She’s close enough now that I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, and my eyes land there before I can stop them, on that small, vulnerable stretch of skin above her collarbone where the blood runs close to the surface. For one unforgivable second, my brain short-circuits and I think about pressing my mouth to that exact spot just to feel her heart race against my lips.

The thought is so vivid it knocks the air out of me. I drag my gaze back to her eyes. They’re blazing. She hasn’t moved an inch as she shakes her head. “Not until you tell me why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like being in the same room with me is some kind of punishment.”

I almost laugh. Almost. Because she has no idea how close to the truth she is.

“Just move.” I try to step around her, but she shifts with me, blocking the path again. “Please.”

“No.” Her jaw is set, her eyes bright with frustration. “Not until you give me a real answer.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Bullshit.”

The word cracks through the air. My control slips another notch.

“Daisy—”

“Tell me.” She steps closer. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin, can see the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, and my traitorous gaze drops to her mouth for half a second before I wrench it back up. “Tell me why you can joke around with Colt and talk to Rhett for hours and smile at Shelby like she’s—” Her voice catches. “But you can’t even look at me.”

That’s what she thinks. That I can’t look at her.