Page 2 of Wild Return (Wild Heart Mountain: Wild Rider’s MC #15)

VIKING

A s I follow Sydney down the stairs to the brewery floor, my gaze travels down the back of her neck and the thick rope of dark hair that swings between her shoulder blades.

It’s longer than I remember, hanging a good few inches past her shoulders.

Her knee-high boots leave a sliver of thigh where they don’t quite meet her skirt and make her go slow on the stairs.

I’m right behind her, and her thick plait is too tempting.

I have to know if her hair still has the same silky texture and if she still uses citrus-scented shampoo.

I reach my hand out and capture her plait in my fist.

She goes dead still as I run my hand down the length of her plait from her scalp to her shoulders. The locks are silky smooth, a balm against my callused palm.

“What are you doing?”

She keeps looking ahead, and I tug on the end of her plait before letting it drop.

“Did you just pull my hair?”

Her tone is annoyed and incredulous and brings back memories of the two of us sparking off each other. Sydney was always challenging. That’s why I loved her so much. Why I still do.

“I did.”

I wait for her to spin around, to see the fire in her eyes and the retort that’s sure to follow. But she doesn’t even glance back.

“Touch me again and I’ll report you for harassment.”

Not the playful retort I was expecting.

She marches down the stairs, and I follow her. It was never going to be easy coming back, but I didn’t expect her icy response.

We get to the cellar, and Sydney spins around.

“You know what? You can show yourself around. The cellar’s down there. There’s a missing keg in row C1. You’re security. You figure it out.”

Her eyes flash dangerously, and it’s a relief to see her fire. Better than her ignoring me.

“And next time you want to touch my hair, ask me first. The answer will always be no.”

She stomps off, and I watch her go. Her hips sway in the fitted skirt she’s wearing, and her boots clack angrily across the floor.

It’s later that evening, and the brewing shift has left for the day. Barrels rushed out half an hour ago. He’s in an awful hurry to get home these days and to his family.

The last time I was back between deployments, the Wild Riders were single men. Now they’re coupled up, and there are kids and babies crawling around the clubhouse.

Time moves on, and I hope like hell I haven’t missed my chance at that.

Barrels told me Sydney would take me through the lock-up procedure, but I haven’t seen her since this morning and I dare not go into the office.

Yesterday she threw a drink at me, and today she stomped off in a huff. I deserve it, I guess. But I sure as hell would like her forgiveness.

I hear the clip of Sydney’s boots coming down the metal stairs before I see her. I lean on the door frame that leads to the tasting room to watch her descend the stairs.

She’s filled out in the four years since I last saw her. Her curves are more pronounced, more womanly. There’s a new confidence about her. Sydney was always confident, but now she’s downright bold.

She avoids looking at me as she marches past and into the tasting room. “Barrels insisted I show you how we lock up.”

I follow her into the tasting room.

Lights buzz overhead, illuminating the rows of wooden bar stools and tables. Sydney strides between them to the double doors of the main entrance. She pulls on the doors, checking they’re locked.

“Charlie shuts everything down at the end of the day, but I always give it a check.”

She speaks in a clipped and professional tone. She’s got her armor up, and I didn’t help matters by pulling her hair earlier like some kid in the schoolyard.

I stride to the double doors and pull on them, making them shake.

Sydney folds her arms over her chest and glares at me. “You just saw me check them.”

I scan the edges of the door, looking for signs of forced entry and weak points. With two kegs missing in the past month, it’s got to be theft, which is why I’ll be spending my nights on site for the foreseeable future.

“Just doing my job.”

She huffs out a breath and strides toward the door that leads back to the brewery floor. I’m halfway across the room when she flicks out the lights. The sudden darkness disorients me, and my foot catches on a bar stool. There’s the scrape of metal against floor as my knee connects with the stool.

“Fuck.”

I hear a pleased huff from Sydney and smile despite the throb in my knee. She wants to forgive me, but I’ll have to endure pain and humiliation first. Fair enough, for what I did to her.

I follow the thin streak of light to the brewery floor and find Sydney waiting with a smirk on her face.

“How long you gonna keep punishing me for, cupcake?”

Her smirk turns to a frown, and she turns away. “As long as it takes.”

The door between the tasting room and the brewery floor is made of thick metal. Sydney heaves it shut and slams the bolt home.

“The tasting room entrance is for the public. Once it’s shut for the day, this can be locked up.”

I fall into step beside her as she strides across the brewery room floor and to a silver panel linked to the tanks.

“This is the fermenter gauge. In the high season we have a night shift running, but at other times, Barrels has a remote link. But I like to give it a check before I leave.”

“Barrels said you like to work late.”

She peers at the fermenter gauge and punches in a number. “Did he now?”

She’s not giving anything away. I want to ask why she works so hard. If it’s because she doesn’t have anyone to go home to. But I steer the conversation to something safer.

“I hear you got back into town six months ago.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You seem to know a lot about me.”

I’ve kept track of Sydney’s every move for the last four years, but if I tell her that now, she’s likely to accuse me of stalking her. “And that you moved in with your brother. How is Nate?”

The fermenter gauge beeps, and she turns a dial one notch to the left.

“He’s just gotten married again. Hang around long enough and you’ll meet his new wife.”

She snaps the lid shut and strides to the next tank.

I press my lips together and ignore the dig.

“Have you worked at the brewery since you got back?”

“I thought you knew everything about me?”

I lean against the wall and watch her pressing buttons and adjusting like a pro.

It doesn’t surprise me that six months in and she’s practically running the place.

Sydney is smart and competent, and Barrels obviously trusts her.

She’s the operations manager, and when he told me that, I swelled with pride.

Sydney’s come a long way in four years. And she won’t admit it, but she might not have done if she had been saddled with me.

With the gauges checked, we head down to the cellar.

The cool air makes my arms prickle, and I resist the urge to fold them around Sydney. We walk between lines of kegs as Sydney flicks out lights and checks packing notes. When we reach row C1, there’s a printed piece of paper stuck to the end of the row.

Small-Batch IPA - MISSING 1

Sydney pauses to glance at the sign, and I’m reminded why I’m here.

I stroll to the door that leads through the loading bay and check that it’s secure. When I turn around, Sydney’s waiting for me at the bottom of the steps.

“I usually lock the cellar door, but if you’re patrolling here, I guess you want it open.”

“Correct.”

I follow her up the stairs, my eyes drawn to her swaying plait. Four inches longer. Marking the time I wasted without her.

“Sydney…” I begin, not sure how to go on but needing to get through to her. “About yesterday…and before that.”

She spins around, and her eyes blaze in the dim light. “No.” She shakes her head. “We’re not doing this. There’s no need to drag up the past.”

“But I want to explain. You’re obviously still mad at me.”

She reaches the top of the stairs and grasps the heavy door in her hand.

“You did explain. And I get your reasons.”

I join her at the top of the stairs, and she slams the door closed. It shuts with a loud clang that reverberates through the building.

“We’re done here.”

She spins around and heads up the metal stairs to the offices. I jog to catch up to her, and we don’t say anything as we reach the office.

Hers is the only desk with the computer screen still on. While she shuts it down, I gather her purse from the floor and her jacket from the back of her chair. She looks at me, confused.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s dark. I’m giving you a lift home.”

She glares at me, then shakes her head softly. Her expression goes from anger to pity.

“I’m not that young girl anymore, Viking. I learned to take care of myself.”

“You always could take care of yourself, cupcake,” I reply softly.

Her eyes blaze. “Don’t call me that. You have no right to call me that.”

She snatches her jacket out of my hand and swipes her purse off me. She marches to the exit, and I lean on the edge of her desk as I watch her go. She heads into the night, and the door swings shut behind her.

I sit on the edge of her desk for so long that the office sensor lights turn off and plunge me into darkness.

I walked away from Sydney once; I’ll never do it again. However long it takes, I’ll convince her that I’m back for good.