Page 64 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

carter

. . .

Three months later

S he’s spread out like a fucking starfish. Blankets kicked off, tits half out of the tank she never wears a bra with, and her leg flung over mine like she owns me—and she does.

There’s glitter on her cheek, probably from one of those sleep masks she insists don’t transfer.

Liar.

Her breathing is soft, her hands curled on my chest like she never wants to let go. And hell, I’d never let her.

Since we left the disaster of Los Angeles behind and carved out something steady in a world that’s never given her solid ground, in that time, I’ve watched her build herself back, piece by fragile piece.

She had to relive the worst of it—file a restraining order, and walk into a courtroom with shaking hands while I stood next to her and promised her she’d never have to do it alone again.

We made damn sure the world knew what kind of man her father was. He lost everything—his board seats, his reputation, the empire he cared about more than his daughter.

That’s what that piece of shit gets .

Three months of living with her, and loving her every second of the day.

Three months of hair in my sink, iced coffee cups on every surface, and her loud, unapologetic existence shoved into every corner of my quiet life.

She sings in the shower, argues with the thermostat, and hogs the covers like it’s a competitive sport.

I wouldn’t survive a day without her.

She’s stronger than she thinks. After everything—her father, the overdose, the way she clawed her way back from that edge—she’s still standing.

Grief didn’t leave her. It won’t. It just settled beside her like an old companion, quiet but never far. I see it in her eyes sometimes, the way it lingers in silence. The truth is, I understand it—more than I wish I did.

It’s been almost ten years since I lost my mama, and some days it still hits me like it’s fresh. You don’t get over it. You grow through it. You learn to laugh with it, sitting in the room. You find someone whose grief speaks the same language, and you hold on.

She’s still learning how to carry hers, but we do it together now. That’s the part no one tells you about healing, sometimes it doesn’t mean letting go. Sometimes it means holding each other through the weight.

I’ve seen her cry on the kitchen floor, knees drawn to her chest, her whole body trembling like it might fall apart if I let go.

I’ve seen the way her fingers fidget when she’s spiraling, picking at her cuticles until they bleed.

I’ve watched her stare out the window for hours, lost in some memory she won’t say out loud.

She flinches at sudden sounds, sleeps with the light on, and keeps her phone on silent but checks it every two minutes, just in case.

Yet, she still manages to smile at the stupidest jokes on her worst days.

Still rolls her eyes at me like she’s not falling apart.

I’ve held her when she couldn’t breathe, kissed her when she was too tired to speak, and tucked her hair behind her ear when she wouldn’t look at me.

I’ve watched her fight to get out of bed when the weight of everything tried to keep her down.

People think strength looks loud. But Catalina? She’s strong in quiet ways. Loving her through it—loving her with it—is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

She stirs now, lashes fluttering. “You’re staring at me again,” she says, voice thick with sleep and accusation.

I grin. “Can you blame me? You snore like a chainsaw and still look hot as fuck.”

She groans, flopping onto her back. “You’re so in love with me. It’s embarrassing.”

“Deeply. Pathetically.”

She stares at the ceiling. “Ugh. I just remembered I dropped a shit load of money on a bookstore I never opened because my cuntbag father decided to kidnap me back to L.A. Loved that for me.”

I hum, dragging my fingers down her thigh. “Get dressed. I’ve got something for you.”

She side-eyes me. “I’m not cleaning up horse shit today, no fucking thank you.”

I shift, and pinning her wrists above her head, as I grind my cock against her bare pussy. Her eyes go wide.

“Keep running your mouth, baby. I’ll stuff it full of my cock so fast, you won’t even remember what sarcasm is.”

She dramatically gasps, throwing her legs wide. “Oh no,” she says, voice high-pitched and breathless with mock horror. “Anything but that. Please, sir, not your giant cowboy dick! How will I ever survive?”

I laugh, grabbing her throat gently, just enough to tilt her chin up, and kiss the corner of her mouth. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“You love it,” she whispers, biting her lip.

“God help me, I do.”

I slam into her in one brutal, claiming thrust, burying myself deep inside of her while she moans like she wasn’t just mocking me.

“Shit—Carter!”

I start to move, watching her eyes flutter, her sarcasm melt into wrecked pleasure. “You play so fucking hard,” I growl, pulling her leg up and over my shoulder, “but you’re soaked the second I talk dirty to you.”

Her hand claws at the sheets. “You’re full of yourself.”

“No, baby,” I grunt, pushing myself deeper. “I’m full of you, and you’re gonna feel me dripping out of you for hours.”

She moans, and I press down harder, as I grind against her clit with every thrust. “You wanna act like a smartass,” I whisper, leaning down until our lips almost touch, “then you’re gonna take this cock like a good girl.”

“Fucking make me.”

I grab her hips, fucking her so hard the headboard knocks against the wall. She’s moaning louder, her bratty mouth lost to pleasure as I pound into her without mercy.

“Look at that,” I pant. “Not so mouthy anymore, are you?” Her nails dig into my back as she trembles, coming hard with a cry of my name.

I don’t let up. I chase her through it, fucking her deeper until I’m spilling inside her, as my head buries in her neck, groaning into her skin like she’s the only thing that’s ever felt real. We stay tangled, her body soft under mine.

She sighs, still catching her breath. “I love you. ”

I grin, kissing her cheek. “I love you more, baby. Come on, let me clean you up and let’s get dressed.”

She groans. “Why?”

She doesn’t say a damn thing on the drive into town. She stares out the window, her hair half up in a lazy bun, as she wears one of my flannels hanging off her shoulders. Her infamous bedazzled cowgirl boots are up on the dash, and that sharp attitude simmers just below the surface.

She knows where we’re going. Her body’s already tense like she’s bracing for impact. When I pull into the lot, she doesn’t bother looking at me.

“Why are you bringing me here?” she mutters, eyes fixed on the building. “So I can stare at another fucking failure, and remind myself what getting gutted feels like?”

I swing the truck into park and step out without answering. I walk around, open her door, and hold out my hand. She doesn’t take it right away.

“Shut up and come with me,” I tell her.

She glares—because, of course, she does—but her fingers slide into mine anyway. We walk toward the door, her grip tightening around my hand. She thinks she’s about to fall apart again, but she doesn’t know I rebuilt it all for her.

I push open the door, gesturing for her to step inside first. She crosses the threshold, and her entire body stills as she lets out the tiniest gasp.

She turns in a slow circle, her hands covering her mouth, and her eyes wide as she takes it all in.

The air smells like vanilla bean and cedarwood with a hint of matcha.

Soft lavender neon glows from the back wall, curling in cursive letters that say Smut Princess —because that’s what the fuck she is and we both know it.

Shelves line the walls, towering and perfectly spaced, stocked with dark romance, spicy fantasy, and all the morally questionable love stories she used to whisper about wanting in her store one day.

Her custom matcha bar gleams beneath a gold sign.

The back counter is stocked with oversized mugs, lavender-hued syrups, rainbow sprinkles, and enough oat milk to last her a century.

Next to the register, her tip jar is right where it belongs, rimmed in glitter, with a label handwritten in chunky letters: You’re Doing Amazing, Sweetie.

Overhead, fairy lights wind around exposed beams, twinkling around the wood. And pulsing through the space is a remix of John Summit’s Where You Are, just loud enough to thump in your chest.

I watch her take a shaky step forward, her fingers drag across the counter, down the row of annotated BookTok faves, and past a little shelf labeled Catalina’s Chaos Corner filled with sprayed edges and signed editions.

She finally turns to me, voice barely above a whisper. “You did this?”

I nod, stepping closer until I’m right in front of her. I cup her face in both hands, brushing my thumb slowly across her lip. “Anything for you, baby.”

She doesn’t answer with words. She grabs my shirt, pulls me down, and kisses me like she’s still trying to wake up from a dream she doesn’t trust yet.

She exhales, her hands still curled around my chest. “How did you know this was me?” she whispers. “All of it? ”

I smirk, brushing her hair off her cheek. “Just because I’m quiet, darlin’,” I murmur, “doesn’t mean I don’t observe.”

She lets out a watery laugh, eyes wide and sparkling, and spins once more under the fairy lights like she’s dancing in the middle of her magic.

“One more thing,” I say, pulling the envelope from my jacket.

I hand it to her, and she opens it slowly, brows pulling together the moment she sees what’s inside.

“What the fuck is all this money?” she says, voice sharp but cracking.

“That’s everything you paid Linda for this place,” I tell her. “I saved every dollar.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, glassy and confused.

“Your father never believed in you,” I say, “but I did. You paid rent, you were responsible for it, and you made it happen. You should be fucking proud of yourself. Don’t let anyone ever make you think you weren’t enough, don’t ever let them dim your light.”

Her lip quivers as she clutches the envelope to her chest, and she falls into me. “I love you,” she chokes out into my neck.

I close my eyes as I press my lips to her temple. “Can I ask you something?” I whisper against her hair.

She nods against my chest.

“What’s with the purple pansies?” I glance toward the little vase on the counter where I set a fresh bouquet earlier this morning.

“They were my mom’s favorite,” she says quietly. “Bright and loud, just like her. She lit up every room she walked into.”

She pauses, exhaling shakily. “When things got dark, I would try to focus on color in life—any kind. To try and help me remember what this life was worth living for. Sometimes it worked, but not always.”

Her hands shake slightly as she brushes a stray tear from her cheek.

“I tried to fill the emptiness with stuff. Alcohol. Spending. Drugs. My last attempt… I hoped that if I disappeared loud enough, he’d finally notice. But he didn’t, and that was enough for me.”

I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb beneath her eye as another tear falls.

She lifts her glassy eyes to mine. “Everything was black and white until I came here,” she whispers. “Finding this place, finding you, it brought me back to life. You’re the color in my world, Carter. You’re my spark.”

I kiss her passionately. Full of every word I can’t say.

I pull back just enough to speak the only words that matter.

“Be my wife.”

Her eyes go wide, as her lips part in stunned silence. “What?”

“Marry me, Catalina,” I whisper, “be mine forever.”

She doesn’t say yes. She launches into my arms, laughing, crying, and kissing me all at once, both of us crash into the sage, velvet chair behind us like something straight out of the messy love story we never saw coming.

Her arms are around my neck, her smile pressed to my mouth, and my hands are full of her—of the life we built out of every broken piece we refused to let define us.

In the middle of a bookstore filled with smut, matcha, and second chances, the wildest woman I’ve ever loved says yes without a single word.