Instead of wearing boots and belts and trying to look cool on a horse like my foster brothers, I was a big, angry punk from Orangevale. Complete with black painted fingernails, dyed hair, eyeliner, flannel shirts, and Doc Martens. Any other kid would’ve been beaten mercilessly for that look, but nobody messed with me because of my size. I listened to Slipknot and Five Finger Death Punch, smoked behind the school dumpster, and brought orange juice with vodka to class.
My foster dad, Wyatt had his hands full with me, but he managed to sort me out. And what he didn’t finish straightening and polishing, the Army did. Thankfully, sealed juvenile court records and top marks on the ASVAB and DLAB put me on course to excel in the Army and advance to Ranger School.
It makes me cringe to think about those awkward high school days when I first came to Rough & Ready, a fucked up, neglected, mad-as-hell foster kid. I never had a great tale of woe like Logan or Maksim. I just had a diagnosis of oppositional defiance and a single mother who let me run the streets until I ran into the law.
At first, I hated everyone in Hollister and wanted nothing more than to get away from all the hicks. But four years of working on the Rough & Ready Ranch put me in a cowboy hat, listening to Chris Ledoux and Garth Brooks. It was a remarkable transformation that I doubt anybody from Hollister remembers but me, and it was all thanks to Wyatt. He took me and fourteen other foster boys in, the worst of the worst by all accounts. But he’s not the type to give up anyone, and he saved each of us, except for maybe Holden. The jury’s still out on him.
“Hello? You there, Wolfe?” I realize Selma’s staring at me expectantly.
Having spaced out whatever the hell she said, I grumble, “I thought you two ladies would be sticking closer to Hollister tonight. What brings you out to Ophir City?” I almost choke on the word “ladies,” but it’s a force of habit. My foster dad taught me to be polite in all instances, even unsavory ones.
Selma shrugs her shoulders, and I can see she’s already looking past me at Rutger. Those two always seem to have a good time together. Even though her eyes stray, she answers my question, “I could ask you boys the same thing.”
From his dark blond hair to his gray eyes, Rutger’s drawnto any woman who shows him a lick of interest. He answers over my shoulder, “We’re here to celebrate Ormsby Security’s new big state contract at the California Historical Society.” My employees turn at this, raising their glasses to cheer me, and I accept it begrudgingly as people in Lucky’s crane their necks to see what all the commotion’s about.
The timing couldn’t be more impeccable as I watch my wife and her historical society colleagues standing near the entrance, eyeing my table. They’ve just walked in, no doubt, to take advantage of Lucky’s generous happy hour. Lucky’s is a few blocks from the museum, so her presence shouldn’t surprise me. It still makes my heart race, though.
Izzie’s eyes lock with mine. After all these years, those gorgeous periwinkle orbs knock the wind out of me. They go from curious to scathing instantly as she surveys the women seated on either side of me, and her face flushes red. I wish I could say it was from jealousy, but I know that look’s one hundred percent rage. She knows I won and accepted the job.
Chapter Two
WOLFE
Izzie may be pissed at me, but I’ve got shit to be enraged about, too. My wife’s surrounded by male museum curators and employees, most of them way older than her. Some of them married. So, I know it’s more or less irrational. Nevertheless, I’d still like to put my fist through every one of their faces.
One guy looks younger than the rest. I don’t recognize him from town. He’s sticking awfully close to Izzie’s elbow, and I’m ready to kill the motherfucker. That was always one of my greatest areas of insecurity in our relationship—her in the presence of good-looking, educated men. I’m a fucking savage. I’d sacrifice my body and life to save her in an instant, but I could never compete for her mind. I’m too damn stupid.
Izzie beelines straight for my table, and I see the younger man grab her elbow. Thankfully, she pulls away from him, looking slightly annoyed. I’m moments away from messing up his pretty face. Lucky for him, he follows, staying a few steps behind her.
I appreciate the sway of her ample hips and generous tits as she approaches in a tight knee-length black skirt, matchingpale pink sweater set, and white wool vintage swing coat with big gold buttons. And that’s not to mention the sexy, flesh-colored pumps decorating her shapely stems. She’s dressed to the nines, and I’m irate, trying to figure out who she wants to impress. All I know is she’s as smoking hot as the first day I met her when she spilled water down the front of her shirt, giving me a glimpse into heaven.
She stops directly before the table, putting her hands on her hips. I swear she gives Selma and Laurie tense glares before directing her rage at me. “I suppose you’re celebrating your big win?”
I shrug, aware that Selma’s hand rests on my shoulder again. The woman is persistent. I’ll give her that. I’m even more aware that Izzie can’t take her eyes off it. “If that’s your way of congratulating me, thanks, I guess,” I grumble.
Drawing in a deep breath, Izzie cocks her head to the side. “You know, I have to hand it to you. I never saw this coming. I had no clue you could be this manipulative.” She shakes her head, punctuating the statement.
She knows her accusation is unfounded. I can tell by how her eyebrows hover on her forehead for a split second before dropping back down. She blinks nervously, too. I may be many things—a thick-headed ass, a stubborn jerk—but being manipulative is not among my faults. Selma loops her arm around my neck.
Now, she’s gone too far. I pull away, ordering her to have fun with Rutger. Izzie’s face instantly relaxes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous.
Clearing my throat, I explain, “It was too good to pass up. Besides, I made a promise nine years ago, and I’m not about to break it.”
Sadness flashes across her face, and she opens her mouth to speak before hesitating. She purses her generous lips, and the gesture sets my heart aflame. What I wouldn’t giveto taste those plump, ruby-colored lips one more time. Heaven and Earth, for starters. Finally, she asks, “And which of your many promises would that be, Wolfe?”
The jab of her last words doesn’t go unnoticed. I was a workaholic during our marriage and an absentee dad, especially when the kids were babies. Ironically, it took our separation for me to finally settle down because one thing was for sure. I wasn’t going to let the court give me any less than fifty percent child custody.
I often wonder what Izzie expected when she married a soldier of fortune. I guess it sounded hot when we were twenty-something nomads. Back then, she was just as likely to travel for art conservation work as I was as a private military contractor.
We both lived rootless lives as contractors, going to the highest bidder. But always finding intrepid and crazy ways to hook up when our schedules allowed. And the time apart only made the sex more sizzling when we finally got together—like two fireballs colliding. It felt exhilarating and amazing, and it suited us both perfectly …until it didn’t.
If Izzie were honest, she’d admit both of our jobs came with broken promises. I had little control over my schedule, location, and what I could and could not tell her. The same went for her, though. Then, she got pregnant with Matt, and I insisted she move to Hollister, close to my foster family.
Maybe that was a mistake, but I wanted to keep her and our baby close to family and safe. Being a big city girl and world traveler, I’m not sure she ever got used to living in a town of two thousand. Nevertheless, I can’t regret it because my line of work comes with unexpected dangers, even to my family. All I know for sure is that every problem on the planet was blamed on my job and our shared former lifestyle after that.
It took me a while to get the message. After all, I didn’t sayI was dumb for no reason. But when I did, I changed everything. Almost overnight. Up to that point, I thought my career was the biggest problem in our marriage. Six months into divorce proceedings and three months into being back in Hollister, and I know better. She hasn’t made one move to return to me, although I’ve established a steady gig that rarely involves travel. Hell, she won’t even give me the time of day.
Looking darkly in her direction, I reply, “Which of my promises? The most important one, Izzie. To keep you safe, protected. To never let anything happen to you.” I’d give my fucking life for her without hesitation, and she knows that from our time in Afghanistan.
