Page 17

“Oh, come on, Lou,” she says, still grinning. “He got you there.”

I flip them both off as I start cleaning up for the day. My hands move on autopilot—wiping paint-streaked jars, dunking brushes into cloudy water—but my thoughts don’t. Truth is, I’m not pissed at them. Not really.

What got me was the part of me that flinched at how right they were, and how much I wish they weren’t.

Once everything's rinsed and packed away, I drift into the kitchen, and that’s when I see it.

Maddox is standing behind Evie, his big arms wrapped around her like armor. His hands cradle her belly from underneath, gently lifting it, easing the strain off her back. She leans into him, one arm lazily slung around his neck, her eyes closed, lips tilted in that soft, half-smile only he gets from her. The light from the window catches on her face, casting the whole moment in a hazy gold glow.

They look like they were pulled from another life—some quiet, tender world I’ll never set foot in.

That’s the thing about Maddox and Evie. Together, they’re something rare. Solid. The kind of love that doesn’t ask, doesn’t explain—it just is. Watching them feels like pressing on a bruise I can’t stop touching.

A family. A future. A child who will never know what it’s like to be unwanted.

I swallow hard, turpentine clinging to the back of my throat like regret. The ache flares up, sharp and mean—an old wound with a fresh bleed. I’ll never have that. Not the baby. Not the soft, quiet mornings. Not the steady arms around my waist and a future curling beneath my ribs.

And God help me, some days, the knowing burns worse than the wanting ever did.

“Are you staying for dinner?” she calls out softly to me.

“Nah, give the boys my love. I’m going to head out.”

But the Lord can’t seem to grant me any mercy.

I pull into my drive and there he is—Henry fucking Wilder, shirtless, sweat slick and raw, dirt smeared across his muscles like a God damn badge of sin. Every inch of him screams trouble and I’m aching with this twisted hunger—like I want to tear his clothes off, bury my mouth in that rough, heated skin, and fuck him raw until there’s nothing left but gasps and skin against skin.

Henry Wilder has always been handsome, but fuck me if he didn’t grow into a fine fucking man. Not just “small-town cute” or “your mama’s favorite deputy” kind of handsome. No—he is fuck up your whole life, ruin your credit score, swallow his kids in a Wendy’s bathroom, catch a fucking charge kind of hot.

And there he is—shirtless in the damn sun like he doesn’t know what he is doing to me. Sweat slicking over every inch of that broad, brutal chest, catching in the dip of his collarbone, sliding slow down the ridges of his stomach like sin incarnate. His jeans hang low on his hips, denim stretched tight over thighs built to ruin furniture and rearrange organs.

And that sliver of soft—just above the waistband?

That fucking strip of skin?

That is it. That is my 13th reason.

Because it isn’t about abs or vanity—it is about the kind of man who can take a punch, eat three plates of food, carry a body out of a burning house, then fuck you stupid up against the wall before the smoke clears.

My mouth goes dry, my thighs go tight, and my brain…well that bitch just left the chat.

He glances up, and I swear he knows I am watching. That lazy, cocky grin curls at his mouth—half challenge, half promise—and I swear I whimper. Out loud. Like a God damn Victorian heroine in heat.

Then my eyes catch those fucking wildflowers inked across his chest. They stare back at me, sharp and undeniable, and just like that, the heat swirling through me sobers. The moment cracked wide open—the weight of it settling in my gut like cold concrete.

Seeing those wildflowers—loud and permanent, sprawled right across his chest—that morning hits me like a sucker punch. How the hell have I never noticed before? I’m not crazy. The man is covered in sketches I’d drawn years ago, inked into his skin like some twisted family album.

Aunt Joe standing tough, Maddox and Sophie smirking, and Merc caught mid-laugh at the fair one summer. Then there is Maggie, grinning with a wildflower tucked behind her ear—but those flowers over his heart? They are mine.

Those flowers aren’t just tattoos—they are a claim. A part of me branded on him, and yet, instead of pride, a hollow ache settles deep in my chest. I feel unworthy of that kind of mark—because I can’t give him what he wants most and seeing them permanently etched on his skin only makes the distance between us feel even wider.

He runs a hand through his thick hair. “You keep looking at me like a piece of meat, and I’ll handcuff you to my bed and fuck you like one.”

I snarl low, stepping closer, voice rough with heat and spite. “Oh yeah? You dropped something.”

He pats his pockets, glancing around like a lost puppy hunting for a clue. Then it hits him, and that cocky grin curls his lips. “What’s that, wildflower?”

I turn on my heel, voice dripping with venom. “All that dick in your mouth, followed by a mouthful of ‘dream on.’”