Page 3 of Wild As Her
“A walking red flag,” I say as I finally gather the courage to glance at him. I’m in no mood for Jack Jessop and his antics today. Or any other day. I have bigger problems on my plate.
He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a deep, gravelly sound. Hearty and real, like he threw his whole body into the joy of it. As my mortal enemy, I find it super annoying. But as a woman with needs, it’s captivating. “Jesus, Cami.”
The humor fades as I stare back down at my drink, defeat pouring through me. I say quietly, “What do you want, Jack?”
Jack says nothing back, and I have no idea what he’s thinking because I’m afraid I’ll start to cry if I look at him. And I willnotbe crying in front of him.
I sip my drink and wonder what Jack’s angle is here. Did he come to gloat? I’m sure word is getting around that my family’s ranch is officiallydone.
Only when I finally look over, there’s no humor in his expression. Instead, he looks at me with an unreadable expression. One that frustrates me because, normally, I can read Jack like a book.
He says softly, “I don’t want anything. We’re just two old friends having a drink…”
“Funny, because we’re not friends, and I’m not old,” I say, too tired to fight him tonight. “Bet you’ll be happy to have new neighbors,” I mutter.
I can feel his gaze on me when he says, “What?”
I can’t stop at this point. I’m so mad about everything that has happened today.
“The bank will probably sell Wilder Ranch to some big-deal developer. Maybe you’ll get your very own Costco next door. Just imagine all the people lining up for free samples while you’re out branding your cattle. Or better yet, a hippie-dippie patchouli farm. I bet they’ll host full moon drum circles right up against your fence line. They’ll just love your methane-producing herd ruining their sacred air. Maybe they’ll even stage little protests with cardboard signs and everything right outside those ridiculous Jessop iron gates. Which, by the way, look like the entrance to a villain’s ranch in a bad western.”
Jack stares at me and blinks. Then, he slowly drags a hand down his face and mutters, “I swear, talking to you is like arguing with a raccoon hopped up on caffeine.”
I smirk. “That’s rude to raccoons.”
Jack reaches over and places his hand under my stool and drags me closer to him. I glare at him but have no energy to protest the closeness. And it’s also rude how well he can read me and know that I probably needed to be close to someone right now.
And it’s honestly unfair how good he looks. He’s a grumpycowboy snack. His blond hair, tousled like he just ran a hand through it after taking off his hat, catches the light, a little messy, a little perfect. His jaw is wide and strong, the kind that looks like it’s clenched more often than not, and right now, it ticks like he’s holding back words or something else entirely. He usually keeps his beard neatly trimmed, but it looks like he needs a shave.
His sharp, mossy green eyes are the kind that don’t just look at you. They look through you. Like he already knows what you're about to say and is halfway to calling you on it. There's a weight to him, a presence, like he was born in boots and battle-scarred denim, carved straight out of the land he works. Not loud. Not showy. But when Jack walks into a room or steps into your space, everything else just fades out.
But I know that Jack has a heart he keeps under lock and key and a soft spot he’d rather die than admit to having. I’ve seen it. It’s rare, but I’ve seen it.
And right now, that whole six-foot-something frame of his is way too close, casting shadows over me, making me feel things I don’t want to admit to when it comes to Jack. I need us to get back to our status quo. I can’t handle him being nice to me. It’s not normal. I like it better when we argue back and forth. It’s what we do. This version of Jack makes me nervous.
“Cami…” His voice is low, rough, and dangerously steady. His eyes don’t leave mine, not for a second. And when I don’t immediately back down, he leans in closer. He’s so close I can practically taste the cedar and soap on his skin and the lingering hint of hay and sweat.
“Maybe it won’t come to that,” he murmurs, reaching up, slow and deliberate, brushing a loose piece of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek, and it feels like being touched by a live wire. “Maybe it’ll all work out. Maybe I could help you…”
My brain short-circuits. I forget how words work. Why is he being nice to me?
“Help me?” I manage the pitch way too high. “I don’t—no, I don’t need—your… help.”
God. Smooth.
Jack leans in, his mouth a breath from mine, and he’s so smug about it. “You sure?”
My spine stiffens, and I lean back. “You’re not worthy enough to be my knight in shining armor,” I snap, praying he can’t see the blush blooming up my neck. I hate when he makes me the butt of his jokes. I’m just an amusing game to him. A way to entertain himself by purposely making me stumble when he flirts with me.
“Give me time,” he says, grinning. “I’m just getting started. I’ll show you that you need me.”
I stand abruptly, the stool scraping sharply against the floor, and heads turn our way. “Don’t, Jack. Just don’t. You can’t help me. In fact, I would rather burn it all to the ground than you help me.”
He stares at me for a beat and then offers a short nod, his face grim.
As I head for the door, a cowboy with the emotional range of a beer can steps right into my path. Tall. Grimy. Drunk. Clearly unfamiliar with the concept of self-preservation. I don’t recognize him, and he’s not from around here.
He grins at his buddy like I’m something to poke at. “She looks mean,” he drawls.
