Page 71 of Wilder

Oh, I could never go back to the ranch. I could never show my face in Texas again. I’d have to quit, find a new job, start a whole new life somewhere far, far away from that part of the States.

Canada, maybe.

Somewhere cold where cowboys were rare and Wilder Boone didn’t exist.

Oh my fucking god.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Groaning loudly, I collapsed back onto my mattress, ignoring another wave of nausea while throwing an arm over my face as the humiliation fully set in.

Alcohol.

Alcohol was what was wrong with me.

I should have known better than to trust my drunk self with a damn phone. This was by far the dumbest thing I had ever done. Completely topping the time I dragged some guy home the day after the start of my senior year and got caught by Gage, who’d mortifyingly walked in on me getting railed.

My entire career at the ranch ruined by my drunk motor mouth. I’d never get to see my friends again or Pelly. I’d have to block them all and find some other job and build my life over. I was only nineteen, I had plenty of youth still left in me to find something else.

Something... fuck, hopefully something that would make me half as happy as I was on the ranch.

Then again, maybe that was asking too much.

A quarter?

A sliver of a thought flitted through my mind. Another small, nagging memory that pushed its way through the haze of my hangover and utter despair.

Wilder’s tone last night. He didn’t sound angry... or disgusted. Or even annoyed for that matter.

He sounded... calm?

Even. Maybe a little curious.

Most importantly, I couldn’t remember him turning me down. He’d wanted answers, sure, but even after I’d refused to elaborate, all he said was that we’d talk about it in person when I got back. He never actually rejected me.

I sucked in a slow, shaky breath, slowly letting my arm fall back down to my side.

That had to be a good sign, right?

I wasn’t crazy for thinking that?

Wilder Boone was the kind of man who didn’t waste words or anyone’s time trying to beat around the bush. If he had wanted to shut it down, he would’ve. Right then and there, no questions asked and no reason to spare my feelings.

He would’ve told me it was inappropriate, that I’d crossed a line and was making him feel uncomfortable. He absolutely would’ve told me no—outright and blunt, like he always did.

But he didn’t, he just said we’d talk. Face to face.

I chewed at the inside of my cheek as I stared up at the ceiling.

Did that mean he was considering it?

I shook my head hard, ignoring the way it made my hangover worse. I needed to calm the fuck down because I could be reading into all of this completely wrong.

Hell, I probably was. But still... I couldn’t help but feel a little hopeful. Even through the thick layer of mortification and panic that had lodged a lump in my throat, that little, dangerous flicker of hope refused to go out.

I could call him and ask but... he had said he wanted to talk face to face.

Friday. I just had to make it till then.