Page 6 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

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I used to eat five-star fucking meals at Nobu, sipping overpriced cocktails with beach views and plates of sushi that looked too pretty to touch.

Everything smelled like salt and luxury, the kind of life where the most significant inconvenience was a chipped manicure or a server bringing the wrong type of sparkling water.

Now I’m standing in front of an old barn that smells like fresh shit, surrounded by flies that won’t leave me the hell alone, and the kind of heat that makes my skin feel sticky in places I didn’t know could sweat.

And just to make matters worse, I can’t stop fucking noticing him.

I couldn’t stand the way he walked, all broad shoulders, dark scowls, and this constant, brooding silence.

I keep my arms crossed tightly around my chest as I trail behind him, pretending I’m not paying any attention to how his biceps strain against the thin cotton of his shirt.

Or how his stupid shirt clings to his back, giving me an unwanted glimpse of the muscles flexing underneath.

I couldn’t ignore the tattoos on his arms either, traditional black and white designs, intricate flowers, and filler work that I couldn’t fully make out, but it was all there, perfectly displayed for anyone who cared to look.

Why the fuck was I even looking? I hate him… I think. My hormones didn’t get the fucking memo.

I was here against my will, in this god forsaken town.

No shopping. No glamour. No festivals.

Just shoot me now.

“This here is the barn, where you’ll be spending most of your time,” he says, like he’s giving me a tour of sacred land. “Don’t go wandering around without me, not unless you want to get fucking kicked by a mare.”

I stare at him. “What now?”

“Mare… A female horse,” he enunciates.

“Righttttt. Because that’s so in my sweet little handbook of things I don’t fucking say,” I snark.

He comes to a halt, spinning around to face me, brows drawn together in a deep scowl.

I roll my eyes. “Do they have names?”

“You planning on making friends with them?”

“Depends. They might be friendlier than you, and I need someone to talk to out here, since we’re in the middle of fucking no where.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, already turning back toward the house. “You’ll be real cozy knee-deep in horse shit tomorrow morning.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

He grunts in response, continuing to walk forward.

Cool, love that. He keeps walking, like arguing with me isn't even worth his breath.

God, he’s so infuriating.

I storm after him, my strides quick and sharp as I try to close the space between us .

“Wow, really living the dream, huh? Shoveling shit and glaring at people who are way too fabulous for this place.”

“Yeah, well…” he drawls, “this is my dream.”

Well, now I feel like a fucking asshole.

I keep my mouth shut as I try to keep up with him. He doesn’t slow down; he purposely tosses a smirk over his shoulder, quickening his steps.

Dickhead.

We pass the fence line, the pasture opens up, yellow and orange rays sprawl beneath the lazy afternoon sun, way too picturesque for a place that smells like shit.

I hate how fucking pretty it is, and a small traitorous part of me almost doesn’t mind it.

He stops near a stack of hay bales, turning his massive body towards me, looking down to meet my gaze.

“Look, I don’t care what you did; that’s between you and your father.

I especially don’t care how little you want to be here.

But this is a working ranch, and it doesn’t stop for anybody.

This isn’t some southern vacation for you, you pull your weight or I’m sending your ass back to LA to your daddy. ”

“Seriously? Is this your version of setting it straight? You might want to work on your fucking people skills.” I snap.

He lets out a sound low in his throat as he steps in, close enough that the space between us disappears. His body heat rolls off him in waves, wrapping around me like a warning or a promise. The scent of cedar and pine clings to his skin, striking me, making the back of my neck flush.

I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. He’s so fucking tall it’s unfair, towering over me like he knows it rattles me. He’s so close, I’m almost sure he can hear the pounding of my heart thudding erratically against my ribcage.

His rough thumb brushes along my jaw before hooking beneath my chin, tilting my face up. His touch is calloused, warm, and way too familiar for a man I just met.

“I don’t care if you sass me all day long,” he says, his voice is thick and smooth, with a deep baritone that practically hums through me. “I can take it, princess. But, if you plan on surviving out here, you better get ready to get those pretty little hands dirty.”

I shove his forearms with both hands. “Buckle up, cowboy, because this attitude? It’s not going anywhere. Especially not for you.”

“God fucking help me,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?

I let out a dramatic sigh and collapsed onto the bed. It’s firm like a damn rock. I miss my plush, Tempur-Pedic back home.

Does he really expect me to wake up at the crack ass in the morning to do manual labor? Because I sure as hell am not going to.

My gaze sweeps around the room again, still trying to process the decor and the view. Part of me likes it, but there’s no way in hell I’m admitting that to Carter. I’m too fucking stubborn, so no.

I inhale sharply, tossing my Louis Vuitton suitcase and duffle bag onto the bed. As I unzip them both, I begin carefully folding my clothes, methodically organizing them into the dresser drawers.

Silk blouses, satin skirts, and a pair of black heels I already know is going to be fucking useless here .

What the fuck even is the dress code for ranch life? Do they even fucking make cowboy boots in Chanel?

I grab my toiletry bag as I wander towards the bathroom, preparing myself to see a gorgeous bathtub, already visualizing where I can relax and take bubble baths. I audibly gasp when I open the door. The bathroom is small, old-fashioned, and aggressively wooden.

What the fuck is his deal and wood fixtures?

The walls are made of weathered wood in a deep, honey-colored hue, and the countertop is a rough, knotted timber with a large, round metal basin sitting on top.

A fucking basin.

The faucet is one of those old-timey bronze ones, and when I twist the handle, the water sputters for a second before running properly.

I’m in the fucking house of horrors. Great, just great.

The mirror is framed in distressed wood, and don’t even get me started on the lighting. It’s dim and has a yellowish hue. In theory, this can be so romantic, but I need vanity lights and a huge mirror. How the hell am I supposed to do my makeup in here?

Just as I thought the monstrosities were over, my eyes find the shower. It’s not even a real shower, it’s one of those clawfoot tubs with a curtain wrapped around it, the kind that looks charming in an old Western movie but feels highly impractical for actual bathing.

The shower head is a bronze fixture hanging from the ceiling, and I can already tell you that the water pressure is going to be atrocious.

I groan, leaning against the doorframe.

“This is my villain origin story.”

I’m in the middle of the most luxurious dream—one where I’m lounging on a yacht in the South of France with my girls. The sun kissing our skin, glasses of champagne in our hands, and a shopping spree waiting for us in Monaco.

It’s perfect, peaceful.

Until a deep, gruff voice yanks me straight into the pits of hell.

“Rise and shine, darlin’.”

I jolt awake with a sharp inhale, my entire body flinches as I snap my eyes open. It’s dark and way too fucking early, and there’s a massive figure standing over me, blocking what little light is coming in through the window.

I blink rapidly, my brain still clawing its way out of sleep, trying to process the absolute audacity of?—

Oh. Oh.

I suck in a breath, my heart skipping a beat before hammering against my chest. Carter’s standing next to my bed, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking way too chipper for someone who committed a felony against my beauty sleep.

My eyes adjust to the dim morning light barely touching his face, but I can make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his white t-shirt hugs his broad chest, and his biceps being strangled by the short sleeves of his shirt.

HOT.

“Are you serious right now?” I say, a yawn slipping out.

His brow furrows, scowl carved deep, and a low growl escapes his throat, thick enough to vibrate in the heavy silence between us.

“What, you need me to spell it out for you?”

I groan, flopping back against my pillow, and throw my arm over my face. “Get away from me.”

“No can do, princess, your daddy sent you here to work, so that’s what you’re gonna do. So get up.” He says it slowly, and the deep baritone and southern drawl of his voice send shivers down my spine.

“It’s five in the morning, just like I promised. We’ve got shit to do.”

I glare at him, shoving the blanket over my face.

He scoffs. “Let’s go princess, shit needs to be cleaned up and horses need to be fed.”

I gasp, popping my head from underneath the blanket. “I told you, I am not cleaning up horse shit. Goodbyeeeeeeee.”

I nestle back underneath my blanket, hoping the nuisance will go away.

He reaches down, and before I can react, he grabs the edge of my blanket, yanking it clean off me.

A sharp gasp rips from my throat as the cold air rushes over my bare legs.

“What the FUCK?!” I manage to yell out.

He tosses the blanket onto the chair by the window, utterly unfazed by my outrage.

“Get up, get dressed, and meet me outside in ten minutes.” He bites out.

“Or what?” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest like the brat I am.

He leans down, so close I can feel the heat of his body emitting onto me, his voice low, sending heat straight down my thighs .

“Or I’ll fucking do it for you.”

My breath catches.

His gaze holds mine for a beat, long enough to drive me insane, making my stomach flutter with something entirely inappropriate, before he straightens up and strides out of the room.

I stare after him, admiring the way his back muscles flex against his shirt, or the way his ass hugs his jeans.

I’m fucked.