Page 36 of Wild Sanctuary

It feels familiar. Too familiar.

Wyatt pulls the truck into a parking spot outside the feed store.

He doesn’t move to get out.

Neither do I.

June’s already yanked the door handle and stepped out onto the sidewalk, but Wyatt’s got both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. I’m hyperaware of the heat of his thigh still pressed against mine, the way his arm brushes my shoulder every time he breathes.

Too close and not close enough.

“You know where I’ll be if you need anything.” The words are quiet, and his gaze is fixed straight ahead, out the windshield.

“It’s Blackstone Creek, not Gotham City.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Well… almost. “Still.”

Then he’s out of the truck, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving me colder than it should.

I watch him walk away, like that’s not a mistake, and remind myself, firmly, that I’m here to work. That staring at the way Wyatt Hartley fills out a pair of jeans is not on the agenda. Neither is memorizing the way the denim clings to his thighs, or admiring an ass that should honestly come with a warning label, or wondering if Wrangler would consider putting him on a billboard⁠—

Jesus, Monroe. Get it together.

I climb out and focus on something—anything—else.

Blackstone Creek is postcard-perfect—brick storefronts with striped awnings, flower baskets hanging from lampposts, a diner on the corner advertising homemade pie. An older couple sits on a bench outside the barbershop, and a group of kids run past with ice cream cones already melting in the sun. Everyone seems to know everyone, nodding and waving as they pass.

A pair of women outside the coffee shop go visibly still as Wyatt heads down the street. One elbows the other. Both stare unashamedly as he walks right past them without so much as a glance.

June snorts beside me. “Every. Single. Time. The man has no idea.”

I watch him disappear into the Blackstone Inn and wonder how that’s possible.

How does someone who looks like that not know the effect he has?

June bumps her shoulder against mine. “You done staring, or do you need another minute? Because I can wait.”

I can feel my cheeks heat, though I double down with a firm “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure you weren’t.” She loops her arm through mine and tugs me along the sidewalk. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”

We stroll down Main Street, and I take inventory. The hardware store that’s still run by the Eriksons, four generations deep. The florist has expanded, and now has buckets of wildflowers spilling onto the sidewalk. And on the corner, Sky Country Books, with a fat orange cat called Hemingway in the same patch of window sun he was in the last time I drove through.

“He’s still alive?”

“Yup. Don’t ask me how.” June presses her face to the glass, making kissy noises. The cat doesn’t so much as twitch. “He gets it, honey. Peak relaxation. We should all aspire to Hemingway’s level of not givin’ a crap.”

I laugh, letting her pull me along, and then I see it. The checkered curtains. The flickering neon sign.

Rosie’s Diner.

Grief hits me, and I slow to a stop, and my voice is small when I speak. “Dad used to bring me here for ice cream.”

The same red vinyl stools are visible through the window. The same old jukebox in the corner that only plays seventies country songs.

“Every Sunday after church during our summers. Mom’s rule was always one scoop, but Dad said her rules didn’t apply in Montana.” I smile, even as my throat tightens. “He’d wink at Rosie and order me two. Like we were getting away with something.”

June squeezes my arm. “Rosie’s still makes the best strawberry cheesecake ice cream in three counties. We’ll have to come back before you leave.”