Page 7 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

Rose

“Stay here a minute,” Wilder tells me, and my heart is in my throat. Panic slams into me as he rushes out, leaving me alone in the car. I can’t move—can hardly breathe as past events drag me under.

The sun has set and the lights are on in the house. I blink, making out the car parked in front of the charming cottage. It’s familiar. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw it back at Wilder’s house just under an hour ago.

I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s someone he knows. Someone who .?.?. lives with him?

Is it a woman? Will I be living with someone?

I watch him march across the gravel road to the porch steps before quickly deciding I want to know what’s got him so worked up.

Jumping out, I follow behind him. My footsteps crunch on the gravel but he’s too focused on who’s inside to notice.

My eyes trail around the blue and white painted exterior. This can’t be all for me for the short while I’m staying. I imagined I’d be at one of the cabins we just drove past. Wes said he stayed in one before he bought his apartment but that I wouldn’t last a day in one of those.

It was almost insulting. But on the off chance he’s right, I didn’t challenge my brother. But this .?.?. this is more like a small house. Wilder’s clearly taken me to the wrong place.

I’m still staring up at the siding when I feel myself—once again—crash against a hard body that’s stopped short in front of me.

“Oomph,” I exhale on impact.

Bouncing back, I blink, quickly realizing I’ve slammed against his backside this time.

And damn, he’s hard everywhere. What is this man made of? They sure don’t make them like this in Manhattan. Or South Carolina for that matter. I should be abundantly mortified that I just pressed myself against him, not once, but twice in the span of one hour.

But I’m not.

I’m buzzing with a new energy I can’t quite place. But the heat filling my cheeks is about to spell it out for me.

Is it me? Would it have killed Wesley to warn me that this man is notorious for stopping short and I’d do well to stay within ten feet of him at all times?

Wilder spins back irritably. “What are you doing?”

I blink, needing a minute to think of something witty or bratty or anything to distract the man from thinking I either have two left feet or am trying to feel him up.

I scoff. “Trying to feel you up and making it look like an accident. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m following you, jackass.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, you don’t like that? Boss–employee respect works both ways. So when I start seeing a shred of it, so will you,” I snap.

I hear a chuckle from above the steps, and we both turn. A burly man who looks the exact definition of a cowboy beams down at me. “Well, you must be Rosie.”

“It’s just Rose.”

He nods curtly .?.?. respectfully . “My apologies, Rose.” He steps down.

“Dallas Thorne, good friend of your brother’s, and the better-looking Thorne brother.” He extends a hand. I take it, feeling the roughness of his palm against mine.

He’s not wrong about being good-looking. But better looking? I’m not sure.

Dallas’s hair, from what I can see under that black cowboy hat, is darker, while Wilder’s is more sun-kissed. The older brother’s got that tall, dark, and handsome look about him, a bearded rugged handsome. An intimidating handsome.

Wilder is more GQ magazine featuring cowboys, kind of handsome. Sharp jawline dusted with the hint of stubble, eyes a deep blue, steady, a little too knowing. A strong frame and lean muscles that I’ve felt twice today. From both directions.

The other difference? I didn’t forget how to breathe when I saw Dallas.

“More like the oldest,” Wilder mutters. “What are you doing here?” His voice is rough, and I’m not sure if he’s angry at his brother for something or at me for snapping at him.

Feeling tension, I step between the brothers. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” I smile at Dallas. Then remember the last time I heard Wes speak of him. My face drops. “Oh, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

His eyes soften, gratitude filling them. Thank God . I never know what to say to people when they’re grieving.

“Thank you, Rose.” He gestures behind us. “This was hers. Well, for the last two years, at least.”

My eyes go wide. “Oh, well then I couldn’t possibly—”

“Nonsense. It’s clean, furnished, and has the best view of the river—it’s perfect. I just stopped by to bring those suitcases of yours. What you got in there, bricks?”

“Art supplies, mostly.”

He rubs his chin. “Huh. Well, walls could use some fresh art, I suppose.”

I hesitate and look at Wilder—not like he’d give me much to work with.

As expected, he ignores me and looks at his brother. “Since you’re here, you, uh .?.?. want to help me give our new temp a tour of the place?”

Dallas gives a low headshake. “Nah, I didn’t make it far past the front door,” he says honestly, and my heart breaks a little for him.

Wilder takes a step toward his brother, his hands on his hips and his voice low. “When I asked you to pick them up off the driveway, I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I wanted to.” Dallas’s kind but hurting eyes turn back to me. “You need anything, just give me a call.” He tips his hat curtly, but there’s no forced smile this time. “Be seein’ ya.”

“Thank you,” I offer softly.

The two of us wait until Dallas drives off before facing each other.

Wilder gives me a scan as he releases a breath, then motions toward the entrance, like I’m the chore he’s been avoiding all day. “After you.”

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. Because let’s be honest, I did just slam into this mountain of a man twice and he’s now probably a little wary of me.

I reach the top step and my eyes are instantly drawn to the name painted on the white mailbox.

Millie Rivers .

I can’t do this. It doesn’t feel right.

I flip around, holding my hands up to pause, and—wouldn’t you know, Mr. Mountain and his rock-hard chest walk right into them.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh my God, I swear, I am not doing this on purpose.”

There’s a rumble that vibrates from his chest that makes me think he’s amused. I look up to find the slightest hint of a grin.

I jerk my hands back like I’ve touched a boiling pot. His eyes drop to them. “Was there a problem?”

With your chest? Heavens, no. It’s per—

The house. He means the house.

“No. It’s just—I don’t feel right staying here.” I glance behind me “This place looks lovely, but it’s .?.?. I mean, he’s still .?.?.”

Another sigh. “Have it your way.” He turns on his heel and starts down the steps. “Let’s go.”

I blink but don’t question him yet. This man’s made it very clear he doesn’t slow down for anyone. I catch up first, mindful to keep a decent distance.

He walks past his truck and toward the elevated cabins lined up along the river. I move fast to keep up with his swift steps. I consider asking where we’re going and about my things, but something tells me not to poke the bear right now.

We’ve walked what’s equivalent to a long city block before he slows down and counts the cabins with his index finger before stopping at one. “That one should be open.”

Wait—it’s either the cottage or this ? There’s nothing in between?

My stomach twists with apprehension, but I don’t say anything. If it’s this or the cottage, then this will have to do. Hell, it’ll just add to the adventure. Put me in touch with nature. Or spiders, whatever.

Its weather-beaten slats lean slightly to the right. Something that might not be noticeable to locals, but my artistic eye catches almost every imperfection.

Something tells me I’m about to have a field day of imperfections.

I pause at the stoop, warily eyeing the steps. But Wilder jogs up like it’s nothing. Like they’re not about to crack at the slightest gust of wind.

He pulls out a set of keys, not bothering to look back at me as he unlocks the door. “You comin’?”

I swallow, putting my hand on the wooden rail. “Right behind ya—a safe, crash-free distance behind.”

Rolling his eyes, he holds the door open for me, and I know why. The jerk is waiting to see my reaction as I walk in.

Well, two can play this game.

I don’t linger at the entrance. Nor pay any mind to the lone window on the front that has a crack running through it. I march right in.

I keep my eyes low, not wanting to give away too much. The wooden planks seem to be in good condition, not warped or anything. And the creaks they make with each step are faint, so there’s that.

It’s dim, the overhead light casting a yellowish glow on the small space. There’s a twin bed, dresser, armchair and a kitchenette. It smells all right, I suppose. Or maybe I lost my sense of smell earlier, back at the barn?

“This is it,” Wilder says gruffly, but I don’t miss the faint smirk. “Will it do?”

“Well, it’s not the Ritz, I’ll admit,” I say, showing good faith by tossing my backpack on the bed—with sheets looking older than me.

He laughs. He actually laughs. It’s deep and gravelly, and it makes my stomach fizz. Even if it is at my expense.

The. Absolute. Nerve.

“I take it the bathroom is through there?” I ask, pointing at the door by the old dresser that will not be seeing any of my clothes. Art supplies, maybe. In fact, I may just use some to give it a little life.

He folds his arms, watching me as he offers a subtle nod.

Unzipping my backpack, I pull out a pack of disinfectant wipes I brought for the plane and hold it up. “Well then, I’ll be right back.”

“Rose.” It’s a mix of warning and calling my bluff, but I don’t turn around.

Pushing the door to the bathroom open, I pause at the threshold. It’s surprisingly clean. Small, yes, but not all that different from my apartment. Maybe a bit more rustic.

“Smells nice in here,” I call out, still wiping down every surface.

“Sure it’s not the coconut-scented toilet wipes you got in there?”

“They’re hand wipes and they come in handy.” I chuckle out loud at my own pun as I finish my business and flush.

“Bet you won’t find it funny when the bears come around .?.?.”

I yank the door open. “Bears?”

“Only seen once or twice this year. Just keep your door locked.”

I almost laugh at the irony.

Oh, don’t worry, cowboy. I always do.

My eyes flicker to the wooden door nervously, resisting the urge to ask if I’m safe here. If there’s a history of break-ins. Or .?.?. if he’s got a few extra locks I can borrow. I don’t ask any of that. Not yet, at least. “So there’s some huffing and puffing in my near future?”

He watches me for a moment, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re fine. Besides, I didn’t say wolves. I said bears.”

I march to the front door and carefully pull it open, to ensure I don’t yank the knob right out of the wood. “Well then, let’s test out this lock now, shall we?” I cock my head, gesturing for him to leave.

“Rose, come on, you are not staying here.”

“And why not? Others do.”

He goes into the logistics of the practicality of having cowboys live on the property. The types of emergencies that can happen at any hour and needing staff on site to tend to it.

“Well, I’m part of your staff now,” I say with a shrug.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to prove here.

It could be the way he’s been rolling his eyes at me like I’m some hopeless, spoiled city girl.

Or that I like watching him squirm. Or maybe .

.?. this rustic living .?.?. is just the adventure I need.

“So are Ginger, Wesley, and several others who have homes outside these gates.”

I sigh, still holding the door open.

“Rose, I don’t got time for games. You’re staying at Mil—you’re staying at the cottage. End of story.”

“Or what?”

Hands on his hips, he twists his neck. “Know what? Have it your way. Breakfast starts at five and ends at eight in The Shack—that’s the kitchen. I suggest you get there at six since you’re due in my office at seven.”

Is he mental?

“Seven. Got it, boss. Am I to bring you coffee too? Extra foam, no sugar?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

If I needed some sign that he’s not perfect—besides his biting remarks, which I’m totally here for—that was it . He doesn’t drink coffee?

“Explains why you’re so grumpy.”

With a final glare, he turns and marches down the steps. “I’ll have someone drop off your bags here tonight.”

I stand with my chin up and arms crossed like I’ve won. When the truth is—no one did. And I have a feeling there’s going to be plenty of these rounds.

I shut the door and turn back to my little cabin, expecting to see a spider or roach skittering past me.

“Nope. No roaches here,” I mutter under my breath. “Just bears and hot, grumpy cowboys.”

12.42 a.m.

Willow: How’s your first night?

I send her a pic of my cabin in reply.

Willow: Cute. But you’re not really staying there are you?

Rose: It’s OK, it was worth it.

Willow: What was?

Rose: The look on his face.

Willow: Your brother?

Rose: No. My boss.