Page 10 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

T he drive back to the ranch is painfully, aggressively silent. I could cut through the tension with a fucking steak knife.

I’m still riding the high of actually getting a job all by myself. Sure, it’s at a bar, and sure, Carter looks like he’s ready to drive us straight into a ditch, but I don’t care. I did something.

I sneak a glance at him, my fingers tapping against my thigh, dying to test how far I can push him.

“What’s wrong, cowboy?” I say with mock innocence. “Mad, I didn’t listen to your precious advice and took the job anyway?”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the leather creaks under his grip. “Don’t push it, Catalina,” he growls low, a warning thick with something hotter than anger.

A shiver skates down my spine, but I fight the smug smile clawing its way up my throat. I settle deeper into my seat, drumming my nails lazily against my thigh to antagonize him some more.

My phone vibrates sharply in my lap, startling me .

Vartan.

The high drops out of my chest like a stone. I answer quickly, plastering fake cheer into my voice.

“Hey, Dad.”

Carter doesn’t react at first and doesn’t even flinch, but I can feel the way he stills beside me.

“Tell me you’ve done something useful with your time,” my father snaps.

I sit up straighter, gripping my phone a little tighter against my ear. “Actually, yeah,” I say, forcing a bright smile. “I got a job.”

There’s a beat of silence so thick I think the call might have dropped.

“A job?” he spits. “I’m surprised my useless daughter managed to do something right for once.”

The words hit harder than they should, but I don’t let it show.

“Yeah. It’s at this bar in town—Boots they came on after her death, and learning how to navigate through them is something I am still trying to manage every day. It’s so fucking hard.

My legs are weak as I push myself to stand.

The entirety of my body feels heavy, weighed down by the physical and mental exhaustion.

I inch toward the dresser and search through the expensive fabrics until I find my lavender silk pajama shorts and matching cami.

My hands are still shaky as I change, wiping at the mess on my face like that’s enough to fix it.

I smooth my hair back in the mirror and slap on a sheet mask. Pretending to care about my skin is easier than admitting how broken I actually feel.

I need a distraction, something to pull me out of my head before I drown in it. The house is still as I slip into the hallway, the wooden floor cool against my bare feet .

I creep downstairs, expecting the living room to be empty. Maybe a dark couch to curl up on, and a trashy reality show to numb the chaos in my brain for a while.

The second I hit the bottom step, I freeze.

Carter is already claiming the couch like he owns the place, which, to be fair, he does. His massive body is sprawled out lazily, his arm thrown over the backrest, as a glass of iced tea dangles from his fingers.

The TV flickers in front of him, painting his face in flashes of blue and gold. But that’s not what slams the breath out of my lungs; it’s the fact that he’s shirtless.

Holy fuck.

Ink covers every inch of him. It crawls up from his neck, down over his chest, his abs, his arms, and disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants.

Traditional blackwork. Heavy linework. Skulls, roses, scripture. A chaotic map of ink that somehow makes him look even more dangerous.

One tattoo catches my eye—a red-stained rose etched across his right pec, cradling a script I can’t quite make out in the low light.

I wonder who the fuck the rose is for.

His hair’s damp, messy from a shower, a dark lock falling over his forehead. The scent of cinnamon and cloves fills my nostrils as I stand there like an idiot.

He looks over then, his stormy eyes finding me, dragging down my body in a slow, deliberate pass that leaves my skin burning. I swallow hard, and press my thighs together instinctively as a slow throb pulses low in my pussy, clearly betraying me.

Really? For this asshole?

Finally, he grunts, “Jesus. What the hell is that on your face? ”

It takes me a second to remember I’m wearing the sheet mask.

“It’s called a face mask,” I say, enunciating every syllable.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes gleaming with something darker. “Keep running that smart mouth, princess,” he drawls, “and you’re gonna find out real fast what happens when you push too hard.”

His blue gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to the TV, as he takes a slow sip of his iced tea like he isn’t fully aware he’s torturing me just by breathing.

I roll my eyes, but it’s weak at best. My brain is still very much stuck on the fact that Carter Hayes is sitting shirtless across the room, looking like a damn Calvin Klein ad come to life, completely unbothered while I fight for every shred of composure I have left.

This is so unfair.

I force my legs to move and pretend like I’m immune to him, like I’m not two seconds away from spontaneously combusting.

“Whatever,” I mutter under my breath, stalking toward the couch. “You won’t do shit.”

I round the end of the couch and plop down as far away from him as possible, tucking my legs beneath me. Grabbing the remote from the armrest, I don’t even hesitate until Carter’s voice cuts through the room.

“Touch that remote,” he says, slow enough to be a threat, “and I’ll make sure you’re cleaning stalls again tomorrow.”

I snap my head toward him, narrowing my eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirks over the rim of his glass. “Try me, princess. ”

I grip the remote tighter, the plastic cold against my fingertips, and with one decisive click, I flip the channel straight to Entertainment Tonight, the opening credits for Keeping Up With The Kardashians blast through the speakers.

There. My inner turmoil solved for the night.

I glance over at Carter, who’s staring at me like I’ve just committed some heinous crime.

“I told you not to–”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off with a smug little wave. “I heard you.”

He leans back against the couch, his jaw clenched, and his muscles tense under all that inked-up skin.

A man barely holding to his patience.

“You’re really gonna make me suffer through this?”

I stretch lazily into the cushions, flashing him a bright, fake smile. “You don’t have to stay, cowboy. You’re a big boy, aren’t you? You can leave whenever you want. Isn’t it past your bedtime anyway?”

He grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t move. He slouches deeper into the couch as his strong arm drapes casually across the backrest. His fingers are close enough that if I shifted even a little, they might graze my shoulder.

I focus on the screen and try to pretend like I can’t feel him still watching me. My skin practically burns under his gaze. I settle in, completely ignoring him now.

The voices of the Kardashians blare on the screen, and I let out a little sigh of relief. The world outside of this moment fades away.

After a long beat, Carter’s gravelly voice breaks the silence again.

“Don’t forget,” he drawls, his voice low, almost teasing, “ you’re cleaning stalls tomorrow morning. Don’t forget your heels, princess .”

I roll my eyes without looking at him. “Kiss my ass.”

I stay focused on the TV, the silence between us hums, the only sounds are the occasional shriek from the TV and the faint clink of his glass as he finishes his iced tea.

For a few minutes, he doesn’t say anything.

Then, I feel him shift off the couch.

He leans in, slow, closing the space between us until I can feel the heat of him ghosting over my skin. His mouth hovers near my ear, close enough that his breath sends goosebumps flying across my skin.

“Night, princess.”