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Still, fuck.
I can’t lose everything.
Not the Purple Bobcat.
Not my place.
Not Sawyer. Not Avery. Not my life.
I suck in a long, jagged breath, filling my lungs till they burn. There isn’t enough oxygen in the whole room to keep me sane.
What the hell will I do?
I care about Willow deeply, and so do my girls, but I can’t risk losing everything I’ve worked my balls off for. I can’t lose my future. The girls need security.
They need a dad who isn’t under the FBI gun, much less a father in jail.
This, her staying here, was only supposed to last a few days.
Nothing more than a guest in need.
Especially not a lover.
This painful secret crunch behind my ribs reverberates through me like falling through a frozen lake.
I know how this ends. I’ve always fucking known.
Losing Brittany taught me what happens when I dare to love, and I swore I’d never put myself through that agony again. Or my girls.
Christ.
Love?
Where’s this even coming from?
I’m not in love with Willow...am I?
Brittany hasn’t been gone long enough for me to love again.
The girls aren’t grown, and even if they were, there’s a chasm in my chest screaming stupid, stupid, stupid. Did you really think you could fill me, Grady?
I’m barely able to stand as Faulkner clears his throat.
“Listen, guys, I’ve put together a list of good refuges, legit ones,” he says. “They’ve been vetted and if I’m not mistaken, that place Willow was looking at down in Sheridan, Wyoming, is on there. I suggest you give them a buzz and find out about taking that tiger on a trip real soon. I can’t keep the Feds off our heels forever. It’s going right up the chain to a full investigation. A whole lot sooner than y’all think.”
15
Let Him Go (Willow)
The next week blurs by with paradise shattered.
Pretending to be a broker for a zoo, I’ve contacted every sanctuary on Faulk’s list, looking for a home for Bruce. It came down to two in the end: one in Florida and the other place in Wyoming.
With limited transportation and keeping him concealed, it’ll have to be Let’s Roar in Wyoming, but they can’t take him in immediately.
The owner, Jacob Cook, said he’d let me know as soon as they can.
Of course, they also need a significant donation to accept him.
Not unusual at all.
Like it or not, big hearts aren’t enough to support an adult male tiger. It costs over fifteen thousand dollars a year just to keep Bruce fed, and that’s after a secure pen, vet check-ups, and proper enclosure space.
I have the money. The trouble is, it’ll certainly be tracked.
Grady says he’ll make the donation in my name, but again, Faulk pointed out that would raise red flags, too.
Once the FBI comes charging in, none of that will look good on our part.
Grady’s other friend, Ridge—the billionaire former Hollywood heartthrob—came up with the donation in cash, claiming it can’t be tracked.
And though I can pay him back when this is over, I’m reluctant to let anyone else wade into this, especially someone like a celebrity.
Ugh. I’m starting to realize how a fly feels in a spiderweb.
But this web is my life.
I’m trapped in another way, too.
I keep telling myself to stay away from Grady—just like I know he’s trying to hold back, too. But as soon as the sun sets, we morph into two different people.
People who can’t keep their hands and tongues to themselves. We end up downstairs every night, splayed out on the futon or sometimes just the floor, plunged into the hottest loving of our lives.
The quiet moments after we’re exhausted and tangled up in each other leave me wrecked.
That’s when Grady assures me we’re going to work this out.
Everything.
But I know he’s only saying it to make me feel better.
There isn’t a crystal ball or a magical happy ending waiting around the bend.
We’re adults and we know it.
If anything, this probably won’t work out perfectly.
You know the odds are slim when a former FBI man drops the truth bomb and it guts him. I can tell every interaction with Faulk hurts him brutally, like he knows we’re doing our damnedest in a losing pitched battle.
Bruce lets out a low growl, snapping my attention back to the task at hand.
“Sorry, Mr. Snarlypants.” I kink the garden hose and lift it out of the water trough that’s currently overflowing.
Huffing out a breath, I carry the hose to the wall, turn off the spigot, and hang it up.
While pacing around the center of his pen, Bruce keeps his eyes on me. Grady made a few safety modifications after the tiger’s jailbreak besides just fixing doors. The large pen where he roams is now enclosed from floor to ceiling with chain-link mesh.
He’s restless, and I know why.
Besides picking up on my anxiety, he needs a bigger place to roam. To be outside in a pen where he can climb and play with balls and boxes, and doze in peace with his long whiskers twitching in the sunlight.
