Page 27 of Wilder

Too much.

Heat pooled in my stomach, sharp and sudden, cutting through the cold like a damn branding iron. I forced my gaze up, locking onto his way too wide eyes, the hesitation written all over his face.

“Asher.” His name came out steadier than I felt, my voice firm despite the very unwelcome arousal clawing its way up my spine. I refused to let my body react to him like this. Or acknowledge it for that matter. “What’s up?”

He exhaled slowly, finally speaking again. “My brother bought me a plane ticket home.”

That’s it? I wanted to reply.

I tried not to find the insult in his hesitation to tell me this. Like I’d actually be that much of an ass to keep him away from his family during the holidays.

Sure, most of the hands at the ranch didn’t have much of a home to go back to once the holidays rolled on by. They stayed here, we celebrated together, we made do with what we had, and in a way, it had become its own kind of family tradition.

But that didn’t mean I was some heartless bastard who’d keep a guy from seeing his family just because the rest of us didn’t have the same luxury.

Did he think I would?

Was that how he saw me?

A hard-ass boss who had no care for his staff’s happiness?

The thought twisted in my chest, sitting heavy, uncomfortable.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my voice to stay level. “And?”

His brows tugged together, just slightly. “And... I wanted to check with you before I made plans to leave.”

I let out a short breath, shaking my head as exasperation settled into my bones.

Goddamn it.

One of these days, Asher Torres was going to put me into an early grave.

What brand of stress would end up being the final nail in my coffin, though?

That was still up in the air.

Would it be after he pulled some reckless stunt with one of the horses?

Or would it be in how he somehow managed to find something broken out in the pasture and get himself tangled up in trying to fix it before I could get to him first?

Or in the way he worked himself to the bone, always the first one up at the crack of dawn and the last one to put his tools away at night, like he was physically incapable of sitting still for longer than five minutes.

Or maybe—just maybe—it would be something else entirely.

Something I had no business even entertaining like this.

Either way though, I was fucked.

“You don’t have to ask permission to go home for Christmas,” I replied.

His lips parted again, like he wanted to argue, but one lift of my brow had him exhaling, shoulders loosening just a fraction.

I huffed out a small laugh, shaking my head again. “I’m not that much of a tyrant, you know.”

And damn it if I didn’t wish I knew why he’d thought otherwise.

The moment the words left my mouth, his eyes went wide.