Page 53 of Wild Sanctuary

“You okay?” June materializes at my shoulder.

“Great. This punch is great. Is there bourbon in it?” I take another sip that’s closer to a gulp.

“Apple brandy. Local stuff.” She watches me for a beat before gently steering the cup away from my mouth. “Goes down easy, hits hard. Maybe pace yourself before you have to stand on stage.”

“All I have to do is stand there while the entire town evaluates my worth in dollar increments. Very normal Friday night activity.”

June bumps my shoulder. “It’ll be fun. Come on, the bachelor round’s about to start—you should see Colt. He’s already warmin’ up the crowd.”

“Warming up or showing off?”

June snorts. “With Colt, there’s no difference. Give him a microphone and a captive audience and he’ll think he’s at Madison Square Garden.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter, draining what’s left of my drink.

“Hey.” She nudges my shoulder gently. “You’re going to be fine.”

I hum like I believe her.

The auction should be the thing I’m dreading right now. Standing on that stage while the entire town assigns me a dollar value—that should be what’s sitting like a stone in my chest.

Instead I keep coming back to Wyatt Hartley across the clearing, letting Shelby Reynolds touch his arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

My grip tightens around the empty cup.

“You ready?” June asks, already scanning the crowd like she’s about to move.

I open my mouth to lie—and then my gaze locks on him.

Wyatt hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, half in shadow, beer loose in his hand. But his eyes are on me now. Locked and unreadable, the way they always are, except my treacherous heart doesn’t seem to care about unreadable anymore.

My face heats.

I hate that he can still do this. After this morning. After everything he said.

“Daisy.” June’s hand closes around my wrist and I drag my eyes away.

“Yeah?” I mean it to sound light and easy and completely fine, but even to my own ears, it doesn’t. Thankfully, June doesn’t question it.

“Come on then.” She tugs me forward, and I follow her lead.

Because standing still isn’t an option.

Not tonight.

13

DAISY

June excitedly tugs me toward the stage.

“Okay, so here’s how it works,” she grins brightly, squeezing through the crowd with the practiced ease of a woman who organized all of this. “Shelby announces each person, bidding starts, highest bid wins. Winners get a dinner date at the Blackstone Inn next Friday—Shelby donated the meals, flowers on every table, the whole nine yards. Very tasteful. Very public.”

She shoots me a devilish grin. “Very non-negotiable.”

“Next Friday,” I repeat. “As in, one week from tonight.”

“That’s generally how Fridays work, yes.”