Page 61 of Wild Sanctuary

I’ve never heard this voice before in my life. And I hate him. Instantly and completely, with a ferocity that shocks the hell out of me.

Daisy’s eyes have gone wide. She’s turned toward the voice, and in the wash of headlights filtering through the branches, I can see the color drain from her face.

I don’t look at him. Not yet. I’m watching Daisy, and I catch the exact moment she puts herself back together—the spine straightening, the chin coming up, the mask sliding into place so fast it makes my stomach turn.

Because I recognize that move.

Hell, I invented it.

“Felix.” The way she says his name is like she’s confirming something to herself. Like she’s remembering which life she belongs to.

I don’t breathe as my hands find my pockets and my face finds an expression that gives nothing away, the one that says I’m just a rancher standing in an orchard on a Friday night and none of this means anything.

A figure rounds the tree line with a smile that already expects to be welcomed. He’s tall and put together, with the kind of easy confidence that comes from never once doubting the room is his. He reaches for Daisy like she’s something he’s come back to collect.

“Drove straight from the airport.” His hand finds the small of her back. “Best surprise ever, right?”

I look away. I have to. Because I just spent the last ten minutes with my hands on Daisy Monroe’s face, and whatever I thought was happening out here—whatever I let myself believe—I was wrong. I had no damn business putting my hands on her like she was mine to touch.

Because she has a life in Denver, two whole states away.

And that life includes this friend who’s clearly not just her friend.

My jaw locks as my hands go deep into my pockets. Daisy looks back once as he steers her toward the car. Our eyes meet in the dark, and whatever she’s trying to tell me, I can’t hear it over the sound of my own blood in my ears.

Then the door closes and the headlights cut through the trees and she’s gone.

My hand is still warm where she pressed her face into it. My chest still burns where her fingers curled into my shirt. Her perfume is still on my hands. And the space where she stood is cold in a way that has nothing to do with the night.

Don’t call me that if you don’t mean it.

I meant it, Daisy. Lord help me, I’ve always meant it.

And for thirty seconds in that orchard, I could have sworn she meant it too.

Then she got in the car with him, and I’ve got no one to blame for one damn bit of it but myself.

I don’t know how long I stand there staring into the darkness. Long enough for the band inside to start a new song. Long enough for the string lights to stop feeling romantic and start feeling like something I need to get away from.

I should go. Find Rhett. Get my truck. Put some distance between myself and this orchard and the way the air still smells like her.

“Wyatt.”

Shelby appears at my elbow, though I didn’t hear her coming. She’s holding two glasses of something and looking up at me with an expression that’s warm and careful and kind, and I make myself smile because she doesn’t deserve anything less.

“Hey, Shelby.”

“You okay?” She offers me one of the glasses. “You looked like you could use this.”

“I’m alright,” I murmur. Which is the biggest lie I’ve told all year.

Shelby steps in closer, her shoulder brushing my arm as she presses the drink into my hand.

“Come on.” Her murmur is gentle. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own.”

I don’t answer. Don’t think about it. Don’t weigh it. Don’t do a damn thing except move.

So when she turns back toward the tent, I go with her.