Page 1 of Stay Wild Darlin’

Prologue

Poppy Stone

“Lana, we’re so proud of you,” my mother said as she walked over to my older sister and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Poppy, stand up straighter in case someone snaps a photo.” My dad scolded me.

It was my sister’s college graduation day. She was studying to become a lawyer, just like Daddy. My brother was already working for the family business, and then there was me—the family’s “oopsie” baby: a preteen middle schooler, battling cystic acne and an inability to make my parents happy.

“It was quite easy. Law school will be the hard part,” my sister said, giving my mother a kiss and then leaning over to hug my dad.

Lana was twelve years older than me, and no one would’ve guessed we were related. She had long, blonde hair, a flawless complexion, and full lips everyone else seemed to envy. Meanwhile, I was stuck with mousy brown hair and enough acne to map out the solar system across my face, neck, and back.

She was wearing a tiny white minidress under her open graduation gown and honors cords—the same ones she’d bragged about all through dinner last night—looped around her neck. I, on the other hand, got to sweat through a mother-approved houndstooth skirt-and-blazer combo under the scorching Texas sun.

“Lana,” her sorority sister squealed, rushing over to hug her. “I can’t believe we actually did it!”

“Same,” Lana replied, quickly introducing Miss Squeals-A-Lot to my parents.

I zoned out, taking in the sprawling campus spread before me. We’d lived in the Dallas suburbs all our lives, and since Daddy Dearest refused to let his oldest daughter stray too far, Lana ended up a couple hours south at a school he’d handpicked.

“I’ll have to call you right back,” my older brother Luke said before ending his call. He leaned and gave Lana a peck on the cheek, congratulating her.

“Why do you have beads of sweat rolling down your neck?” His eyes flicked over to me like I’d crawled out from under a rock.

“I, uh . . .”

My mother’s gaze locked onto me. “Poppy Sinclair Stone,” she snapped. My whole body tensed; whenever she used my full name, it meant trouble. “Go to the bathroom inside Lana’s sorority house and get yourself looking presentable. No one wants a photo with a sweaty, pimple-faced girl.”

“She’s right,” Luke chimed in.

For one wild second, I imagined punching him in his perfect Armani suit and messing up his annoyingly immaculate blonde hair. Almost did it too.

“Bye,” I muttered, spinning on my heel to head inside.

Right before stepping through the door, I glanced back and saw Dad, Mom, Luke, and Lana all lined up, smiling for a photo Lana’s sorority sister was taking. No doubt that picture would end up supersized and framed in the foyer of our home—the family minus me, so everyone could keep pretending our picture-perfect life was real.

Inside the sorority house, I wove through a blur of sisters squealing and celebrating, ducked into the nearest bathroom, and caught my reflection in the mirror. The real sting wasn’t my face but the realization that I was an afterthought to my own family, hauled out once a year for the Christmas card to keep up appearances.

They never saw me as anything more than an embarrassment, a flaw on the otherwise polished Stone brand. I couldn’t wait to leave Texas—and them—the second I turned eighteen.

I’d be done with my parents’ nagging, Luke’s smug superiority, and Lana’s golden-girl perfection. I’d finally be somewhere else, anywhere else, living my own life, free from their relentless judgment.

I turned on the faucet and splashed water on my face, trying to cool off. Afterward, I grabbed a few paper towels and dabbed my skin, forcing myself to breathe.

Eight more freaking years. That was all I needed to get through before I turned eighteen and ditched Texas for good. Once I was out, I’d be free from everything they thought I represented, and they could keep posing for their flawless little photos without me. My so-called perfect family could kiss my ass goodbye forever.

1

Dalton Culpepper

“You need to work on that left hand more,” Papa Banks said, straddling the picnic bench beside me. “When the bull pulls left, lean into the well, stay centered, and use your legs for balance.” Meanwhile, I was trying to savor a perfectly smoked pulled-pork sandwich, and talking about my job was the last thing on my mind.

“Papa B,” I said, reaching over to give his shoulder a firm squeeze, “your son just got engaged. We’re at his party. Let’s chill on the work talk till tomorrow.”

He grumbled something about how this is our lifestyle and not just work or the same stuff he always goes on about, then excused himself. Finally, I could get a moment of peace with my sandwich.

“Come here, porky,” I mumbled.