Page 28 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

Before I can get a single word out, she bolts. Hair flying behind her, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, full speed toward the bookstore like her life depended on it. I just stand there for a second, shaking my head as a low laugh rumbles in my chest.

I load the groceries into the back of the truck, slamming the door shut, locking it before trailing after her, following the trail of chaos she always leaves in her wake.

There’s a For Lease sign taped inside the window, just faint enough to be missed if you weren’t looking. A soft chime rings overhead as I push the door open, and immediately, the smell of fresh paper and worn bindings hits me, the kind of scent women probably dream about.

Romance books line every shelf, overflowing from display tables, tucked into cozy nooks. Different sub-genres are labeled with handwritten signs, small stickers, and custom bookmarks scattered throughout the store like candy.

Linda gives me a knowing smile the second I walk in. She doesn’t say anything as she points a wrinkled finger toward the contemporary romance section before turning back to the register.

I follow her gesture, as I make my way through the aisles until I spot Catalina sitting cross-legged on the ground, her back against the shelves like she’s already made herself at home. She’s surrounded by a fortress of books, flipping through copies one by one, her brows furrowed in concentration.

I lean against a nearby shelf, crossing my arms. “Why the hell are you making a mess looking at the same damn book over and over?” I ask, raising a brow.

She looks up at me as if I just stabbed her in the gut. “Um, excuse you,” she snaps, clutching a paperback to her chest. “I need a perfect copy. If it’s scratched, bent, or ugly, I don’t fucking want it.”

“Mental note. Never ask you that again.”

“You’re learning,” she chirps, returning to her book hunt with surgical precision.

I shift my weight, rocking back on my boots, watching her pile grow until it’s almost ridiculous. With a grunt, I lower myself onto the floor next to her, glancing at the top book.

I nudge the top one with my knuckle. “What’s this one about?” I ask, genuinely curious now .

She perks up, her face softening like she wasn’t expecting me to actually give a shit. She holds it up, brushing her fingers over the cover.

“This one’s called Elevated Ambitions. It’s a spicy billionaire romance where the heroine blows money like crazy, and her dad forces her to work for his company. She ends up falling for her broody boss. So hot.”

I raise a brow. “Huh. Wonder what that says about your taste in men.”

She grins, wicked and unrepentant. “Oh, I’ve got a type.”

I chuckle softly to myself, but I don’t miss the way her eyes light up when she talks about it. Like stories are her escape. Like these characters give her something she’s never been allowed to ask for.

I tap the next one. “And this?”

A slow, devilish grin spreads across her lips, sending a jolt straight to my dick.

“Oh, this one’s a dark romance,” she purrs. “He wears a mask and hunts her down like prey. If he catches her…” She leans in, her breath fanning against my beard, brown sugar and vanilla curls around my senses like a fucking spell, “he fucks her.” she finishes, her lips grazing my ear.

I cough, nearly falling backward into the goddamn shelf.

She laughs, crawling a little closer like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her hair brushes against my arm, and suddenly I can’t remember a single reason why this was a bad idea.

“Every woman has that fantasy,” she murmurs. “Being chased. Caught. Fucked until she forgets her name.”

I gulp hard, adjusting my position on the floor like it might somehow fix the fact that I’m rock hard in the middle of a fucking bookstore. She pulls back with a smug little smirk and goes right back to flipping through pages like she didn’t just burn me alive with a whisper.

Fuck me, if she doesn’t stop, I’m going to fucking snap.

Once she’s finished sifting through her fortress of filth, she saunters to the front counter, digging through her purse, probably for the tips she’s made working at the bar. Before she can pull anything out, I step in front of her and hand my card to Linda behind the register.

“I got it,” I mumble.

Catalina blinks up at me, her expression pinched like she’s not sure whether to be pissed or grateful.

“I had the money, you know,” she says softly. “But... thank you.”

I shrug, stuffing the card back in my wallet, avoiding her eyes. “You’re stuck with me during a storm, princess. The least I can do is fund your survival snacks and literary porn addiction.”

Visibility is shit. Trees sway too hard in the wind, flashing past us in twisted, black silhouettes.

I can feel the truck shudder under the pressure of each gust, and even though I’ve driven through storms like this before, this time it feels different.

This time, she’s in the passenger seat, and she’s not breathing right.

She clutches her bookstore tote against her chest, eyes locked on the blur of gray outside, but she’s not seeing any of it.

Her leg is bouncing uncontrollably, and her other hand keeps flicking through apps on her phone with jerky, panicked motions.

She’s trying to distract herself, to force her brain into control, but it’s slipping fast.

“Don’t worry, princess,” I say, keeping my voice calm even as my knuckles whiten around the wheel. “I’m pulling over. I’m not about to risk us driving through this shit.”

She nods as she clutches the tote to her chest.

I veer into the nearest gas station lot, far from any trees or light poles that look like they could fall. I throw it into park, and the silence that follows is deafening. Not because it’s actually quiet—it’s not. The storm outside is raging. But here, the world narrows to her.

Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, the panic taking over now. She lets out a soft, broken sound, barely a breath, and then her voice cracks open.

“I ca—I can’t breathe. Carter, I feel like my chest is being squeezed so fucking tight.

” Her fingers tug the strands of her brown hair, and it fucking breaks me.

“I’m dizzy and I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I swear to God I’m going to black out and then this whole truck is going to take off like Twister and we’re gonna die in a fireball and I’m gonna be remembered as that bitch who died with five bags of chips and a paperback titled Brutal Obsession in her purse.

” She breathes out, clutching at her chest like she isn’t getting enough oxygen.

I don’t even care what I’m about to do next.

“Hey,” I say, undoing my seatbelt, reaching for her instantly. “You’re okay. C’mere. Come to me.”

“I’m not okay,” she says, wild-eyed, shaking her head. “Carter, I feel like I’m having a fucking heart attack, like I’m here but not in my body. God, why am I fucking like this? Why the fuck am I like this?—”

“Baby.” I pull her into my lap with one smooth motion, letting her straddle me. “You’re just having an anxiety attack. Your brain is just trying to trick you that something’s wrong.”

Her arms wrap tight around my shoulders, holding on like she thinks I might be the only thing that’s able to ground her.

“I hate this,” she gasps. “I hate how randomly it happens. I was fine, I was fine—and now I’m crying in your lap like a psychopath and I didn’t even get to eat my fucking Flamin’ Hot Cheetos first?—”

I press my mouth to the side of her head, breathing her scent in that drives me fucking wild. “You’re doing great,” I whisper against her skin. “You’re here. You’re breathing. I’ve got you.”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” she whimpers, her voice muffled in my neck. “I should not be this close to you if I throw?—”

“You’re not throwing up,” I say, brushing my fingers along her back.“You’re staying right here.”

Her whole body is trembling. I try to ground her with words, even though its hard for me to fucking communicate.

“Okay, talk to me. Tell me your favorite movie, baby.”

She groans against my chest. “I don’t know. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” I brush my hand over her back in slow, even strokes. “You’re just freaking out. So give me an answer.”

She lifts her head just enough to glare at me. “It’s John Tucker Must Die and The Conjuring , which says a lot about me psychologically.”

I smile, pulling her closer. “It really does.”

She lets out a watery laugh and then immediately chokes on another sob.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this again. I don’t want you to think I’m some burden. ”

“You’re not a fucking burden,” I say, cradling her face gently in both hands, my thumbs brushing along her cheeks. “If anyone in your life has ever made you feel like your feelings made you hard to love, I’ll break their fucking face.”

She blinks as tears escape her eyes.

“You called me baby,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“Why?”

My thumbs brush along her cheekbones. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her so bad it physically hurts. But I’m not just desperate for her mouth, I’m desperate for her trust .

“Because that’s what you are to me,” I say quietly, “even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

And then I do what I’ve been dying to do since she climbed into my lap like she belonged there. I kiss her.

My mouth meets hers with the kind of aching patience that feels fucking ages since I kissed her last. I kiss her like I’m learning the shape of her soul, like every brush of my lips is a promise to not let her break.

She sighs into me, her fingers clutch the front of my flannel like she needs something to anchor her, like she’s afraid she’ll come undone if she doesn’t hold on.

I slide my hand down to her waist, my fingers curling around her like I can’t hold her close enough. Her hips tilt forward, barely brushing mine, and the smallest roll of her body sends a low, guttural sound tearing from my chest—one I didn’t mean to let out.

Shit .

I break the kiss with a gasp, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing her in like she’s oxygen and I’ve spent years choking.

Her lips are pink and swollen, her fingers still tangled in my shirt .

“I’m scared,” she says.

“Me too.”

Her eyes search mine. “What do we do now?”

I slide my hand up her back as my fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie.

“We stay right here,” I whisper, brushing my mouth against hers again, softer this time. “Until the storm calms down. Outside and in your head.”