Page 88 of Wild Sanctuary

I throw, and the loop sails wide, landing in the dirt three feet left of the dummy.

“Wrist,” Wyatt says.

“I used my wrist.”

“You used your whole arm.”

I face him with narrowed eyes as I press down on the smile that threatens my lips. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

There it is again. The almost-smile that isn’t one, except this time it lasts half a second longer than before.

I coil the rope and throw again. It lands closer, but the loop at least passes over the dummy’s ear.

“Better.”

“Don’t patronize me, Hartley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He picks up the other rope and tosses it in one easy motion. It drops clean over both horns and settles at the base of the neck like it was placed there by hand.

I stare at it, then pivot to Wyatt. “Now you’re just being a show-off.”

“Muscle memory,” he drawls, and this time the almost-smile reaches his eyes for just a second. For a split second, the air between us shifts into something that feels dangerously close to how it felt in the orchard before reality crept back in.

Our gazes meet and hold, and I know I should stop smiling, but I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I throw and miss again, chuckling as the rope lands a mile wide this time. “I think your muscle memory theory has a flaw.”

Wyatt shakes his head slowly, then closes the distance between us to stand behind me. His hand lands on my hip to square my stance, and his other hand wraps around my wrist to guide the motion. Every point of contact registers like a brand.

Hip.

Wrist.

The wall of his chest against my spine.

“Slow.” The word is a low rasp against the shell of my ear.

“Smooth.” His fingers tighten around my wrist.

“Now release at the top.”

I do, and the rope drops over the horns.

“There you go, Daisy-girl.”

His hand is still on my hip.

My back is against his chest. I can’t help but lean into him.

His breath is warm against the side of my neck and neither of us moves.

Then his thumb shifts a quarter inch against my hipbone, and every nerve in my body fires at once.

My sharp inhale is almost inaudible. Still he drops his hands and steps back, putting several feet of space between us that may as well be the Grand Canyon.

“Gettin’ late.” His voice is level, jaw set. Whatever door cracked open just slammed closed. “I should get you home.”

21