Page 70 of Wilder

Had to be my eighteenth birthday.

Happy New Year to me.

The celebration last night had gone way later than planned and well into the early hours of the morning. The last thing I remembered was Xavier hauling my ass home with Greyson and Dexter, scolding the both of us for being three sheets to the wind by the time he caught on that we were being fed shots behind his back.

Everything after that was a little fuzzy.

Well, except for Greyson dumping me into my bed before leaving me to shuffle to his own room and sleep off the ocean of liquor still coursing through both of our systems.

Now, with the morning sun streaming directly into my eyeballs through the unclosed blinds, I was beginning to deeply, truly, soul-crushingly, regret those damn shots.

Who the hell let me drink that much?

Oh right, Gage’s coworkers.

Groaning again, I sat up slowly, careful not to move my head too much, and patted blindly at my bed in search of my phone.

When I finally found it half-tangled up under my comforter, I squinted at the screen through bleary, half-crossed eyes. A few notifications sat at the top that I held my finger to read—texts from the guys back at the ranch, each of them wishing me a Happy New Year.

Despite the nausea, I smiled, something warm and tight squeezing in my chest.

God, I missed them.

I missed Texas. I missed the ranch. I missed the routine of waking up at the ass crack of dawn working until my body ached in a good way, and ending the day surrounded by people who had, in such a short time, come to feel like family.

Come Friday, I’d be back on that property and back where I wanted to be.

Where I belonged.

Smiling to myself, I swiped up to open my messages, ready to answer everyone, only to have my call log pop up instead as the last app I’d had open.

Not a surprise, considering I loved a good drunk phone call in the middle of the night. With how hard I’d been partying with Grey, it was no wonder I’d somehow snuck off and run through a bunch of my contacts to wish them a Happy New Year.

Scrolling to the top of it, sitting as the last phone call I’d made before being dragged back home was...

Wilder’s name.

I froze.

A horrible, bone-deep feeling of dread curled in my stomach, sending a chill racing through my entire body.

Like a goddamn freight train, memories came crashing back in an instant, slamming into me.

My drunken confession.

Wilder’s sharp, demanding voice pressing me for answers.

Me, desperately trying to avoid embarrassing myself any further by trying to not answer him.

And then, the worst part of all, Wilder telling me we’d talk about it in person once I got back to Texas.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I confessed to my boss.

I told Wilder-fucking-Boone—the man I had spent a year hopelessly pining over, my gruff, broody, out-of-my-league boss—that I had a giant, stupid, ridiculous crush on him.