Wild Eyes

3

Her eyes slice to my hand, but all traces of earlier humor have been erased. Tensions are already running high, and now she’s annoyed.

“Don’t judge me. You don’t even know what I was doing.”

“Okay, what were you doing?”

Her chin lifts. “Creating relatable content.”

“To be decided. I’ll have to search up the percentage of Americans who have been charged by a grizzly in their lifetime.”

She pauses for a beat, as though shocked by my offhanded joke, then she grits out, “You don’t know me well enough to mock me.” A frustrated growl rumbles in her throat as she claps her palm against mine aggressively.

With one firm tug, I haul her up. She’s lighter than I expected, though, and I pull too hard, which throws her off balance.

Her free hand lands on my chest to steady herself, the tips of her fingers awfully close to that hole in my shirt. She stares for a beat and pulls away abruptly, like she’s been burned.

I may not know her, but I know her face has been splashed all over the headlines lately for freezing up in front of the camera.

Today, though? Her words seem to flow just fine.

“It was all going great until you showed up acting like f*****g Crocodile Dundee crossed with…with…” She waves a hand over me as she struggles to find the right insult. “With Superman or something.”

I lift a hand and scrub it over my chin. “It’s the strong jawline, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s the obnoxious hero complex.”

I snort and cross my arms, regarding her with amusement. I always perceived her as this sweet southern-belle type. All airy laughter and good gollys rather than curse words and cutting one-liners.

I wasn’t looking close enough. Because she is none of those things.

“And the”—she waves a hand over my body—“the know-it-all smugness.”

Now I’m full-on grinning. “We both know I saved your ass. Just say thank you.”

She shakes her head as she crouches to pick up her phone. “I would have. But now you’re demanding it of me, and that makes it feel forced and insincere. And I’m so sick of everyone treating me like I owe them something.” She brushes at her jeans, agitation lining every movement as she tries and fails to get all the gravel and dust off her body while muttering, “Skylar, do this. Skylar, do that. Skylar, smile and wave. Skylar, say thank you.”

With a tired sigh, she stops and looks up. “You know what? I’m sorry. I’m having a bad month. You don’t deserve this s**t. I’ve put you through enough today. Thank you for being willing to die for me. That’s new and unexpected and something I’ll have to process with my therapist at a later date.”

I quirk a brow at her confession. She’s still trembling, so I try to draw the conversation out. Give her a second to catch her breath. “A bad month?”

A forced smile touches her lips, but then it falters as she kicks at a stone near her sandal-clad foot. “Actually, more like a bad year.”

“I’ve had those before,” I reply, watching her carefully. I can’t help but wonder what’s got a woman who seems so strong acting like she can’t meet my eyes.

She redirects the conversation with phoney brightness. “Right, so anyway, I need to find Wild Rose Records. It’s a little boutique recording studio. Brand-new. Maybe you know the owner? Ford Grant? I took a scenic route and got lost. These roads aren’t even marked, and there’s no reception. And I thought it would make me feel alive to just like…hit the open road. Ya know?”

I scoff good-naturedly as I turn to walk back toward my truck. When I grip the still-open door, I glance over my shoulder at her. She looks beautiful, and confused, and totally forlorn.

And I’m not the least put off by her outburst. In fact, I like that she came back from that terrifying moment all feisty.

“Nothing quite like a near-death experience to make us feel alive, am I right?” I haul myself up into the truck. “Follow me, and I’ll take you to Ford Grant.”

Skylar walks my way with surprise painted on her face. “You know him?”

I turn the key in the ignition right as she approaches my open window. “You could say that.”

Her brows knit together and she seems nervous as she tucks her hair behind her ears. For the first time today, she looks beaten down.

“I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed by…by everything. That was f*****g terrifying, and I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t think anyone has ever been willing to lay their life on the line for me.”

She says it so offhandedly. It catches me off guard.

What a damn shame.

The thought pops up in my head instantly. What a shame to be an adult and not have felt that kind of loyalty. To be as beloved as Skylar Stone is and still not feel it.

When she peeks up at me from beneath her thick lashes, I offer her a reassuring wink. “You can thank me by not apologizing anymore. Then you can get in your car and follow me.”

She nods, teeth digging into that distractingly full bottom lip once again. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Weston Belmont. Rose Hill’s very own Super-Crocodile-Dundee-Man at your service,” I reply with a dramatic salute.

She rolls her eyes, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. I tap my hand on the outside of my truck as I roll forward.

I’m happy to have saved her life, but I’ve still got four horses to work today, a farm with chores that never seem to end, and two little kids who need their dad. I have to get going.

No matter how tempting it is to stick around and chat.

“Wait! Don’t you want to know my name?” she calls as I pull away slowly, giving her time to hop in her Tesla and trail behind. I don’t respond because I know who she is. I’ve been a closet Skylar Stone fan for years.

But I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I don’t say that. Plus, there will be plenty of opportunities for conversation.

Because if she’s heading to Wild Rose Records…we’re about to be neighbors.