Page 58 of Stay Wild Darlin’

“I mean, for keepin’ track of things,” he added quickly. “Since you know what we’re lookin’ for now.”

Fable grinned and elbowed Beau lightly. “We offered to take Cora for the day and stick to her schedule.”

Beau nodded, already bouncing Cora gently. “We’ll take her to our place in a bit. She’ll be in good hands.”

I looked between the three of them, then back at Dalton, who was very intentionally not looking at me.

“Okay. Sure. Let me get dressed.”

If this is what my boss wanted, then yeah, I could do that. No big deal. Totally professional.

I nodded a few times, mostly to myself, trying not to overthink it.

Dalton was still talking when his eyes dropped to my hands. I glanced down and realized I’d made an extra bagel . . . cream cheese already spread.

“For me?” he asked, that low drawl curling around the words.

Shit. I’d done it without thinking.

“Oh . . . yeah, if you want it,” I said quickly, playing it cool even though my cheeks were starting to warm.

He smiled, and we stood there for a second too long, eyes locked, something shifting in the air.

“Thanks for thinkin’ of me, darlin’,” he murmured.

Darlin’.

My brain short-circuited for a beat.

“I, uh, I need to get dressed,” I said too loudly, spinning around and walking straight to my room, nearly slamming the door behind me.

I leaned against it for a second.

Yep.

I was in trouble.

25

Poppy

The first few miles were quiet. The air was thick with everything we weren’t saying, and the hum of the truck engine filled the silence that neither of us wanted to break first.

Dalton eventually reached for the dial and flipped on the radio—classic country, of course.

“Alright,” I said, tapping the dashboard, “we’re playing a game. Name that artist. If I win, I get to pick the music on the way back.”

Dalton looked over at me, smirking. “And if I win?”

I grinned. “You get the satisfaction of being old and predictable.”

He barked out a laugh. “You’re on, darlin’.”

We played the whole way down—Name That Artist, then a round of Twenty Questions, and even one painfully terrible game of Would You Rather that involved way too many hypothetical bull-riding injuries.

The more we drove, the more the awkwardness melted away.

We started laughing again, and somewhere along that Texas highway, it stopped feeling like a job.