Love Grows Wild Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Suspense Tags Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

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Will purses his lips and shrugs, but I know my stepdad. The expression on his face tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. “Some men just prefer quiet. Life’s easier that way.”

I don’t buy it.

There has to be more to the story.

There always is.

I glance down the road again, where the edge of his property kisses the edge of mine.

So close . . . yet so far away.

At night, after Atticus is asleep and the house is still, I light a candle in my office and sit down at my desk.

The moon is full, casting a soft, pale glow across the room. Outside, the frogs and crickets have begun their nightly chorus, and I can spot the outline of Sugarplum bathing in the moonlight near the barn.

Reaching for my sunflower notebook, I flip to a fresh page.

The words come easier tonight.

Hunter—

Today you opened your front door and let me in.

You didn’t have to. I could tell you didn’t want to. But you did anyway.

I brought you cookies, but I think I really just wanted a reason to be near you again. And when I walked into that house of yours—all stone and wood and silence—it felt like stepping into another world.

You live alone.

But the kind of alone you carry isn’t just about space.

It’s about walls.

And I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be the one to tear them down.

I don’t want to fix you.

But I do want to know you.

And maybe that’s worse.

You’re like a book with no cover, no title, no description. Nothing to go on but gut instinct and blind faith. And something in my gut says you could easily be a page turner, something I could devour in one sitting, if you let me.

I don’t think you will. But my god . . . imagine if you did?

—Wren

9

Hunter

Today’s bologna is past its prime, but I’m starving so I don’t care.

I slap a slice between two pieces of white bread, squirt some mustard over it, and call it lunch. No plate. Just me, the sandwich, and the view from my kitchen window—four hundred acres of rolling pasture, trees, and sky.

And now . . . a pony?

I narrow my eyes.

Sure enough, right at the edge of Wren’s little barn, there’s a shaggy pony with a frizzy blond mane, a marshmallow body, and legs like pretzel sticks, meandering in a small paddock.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” I take a bite of my sandwich and chew slowly, watching.

The city girl has a pony now.

Of course she does.

First she takes my land, now she’s buying livestock?

If this woman builds a chicken coop next, I just might lose it.

She’s out there in a pair of jeans and some kind of jacket that looks better suited for sipping sangria on a trendy rooftop bar than shoveling manure. I chuckle at the sight of her holding a yellow five-gallon bucket, trying to coax the pony toward her. It just stands there, blinking like it’s forgotten what a human is. Or maybe the poor thing is old, deaf, and blind, and Wren’s making a fool of herself for no good reason.

If that thing gets out and causes damage on my side, she’s liable. Willing to bet that’s yet another thing she’s not prepared for.

Typical city folk.

They think buying a few acres and a house with a wraparound porch makes them farmers. Next thing you know, they’re calling the co-op, asking where to buy goat milk for their yard birds.

Still, I’m compelled to keep watching because I’ve been staring at nothing but dirt fields upon dirt fields for days and this is mildly entertaining.

I’ve only been around her a few times now, but each time I find it harder to look away than the time before. Lately my mind’s been wandering her way, wondering what she’s up to, thinking about how she looked in that sundress yesterday, remembering how sweet she smelled at the grocery store and the way she lit up my entryway with nothing but her presence and a smile.

I’m being honest, this whole thing is frustrating the hell out of me.

I’ve been around plenty of beautiful women in my time. Some were a fun time. Some were bad news. Some were disasters drenched in cheap perfume. Wren should be no different—I’m just struggling to figure out how to categorize her just yet.

I mean, the woman stole my land—even if it wasn’t intentional. I’m going to be reminded of it every time I see that pretty face, and I don’t need to go layering on any unwelcome emotions on top of it. Life’s already complicated. No need to make it worse.

I grab two of her oatmeal peanut butter cookies—which are easily the best cookies I’ve had in my life, chewy and moist—and wash them down with a glass of milk before returning my attention to the window, watching Wren muddy up her city boots, trying to coax that pony like it’s some friendly golden retriever and not some ancient four-hundred-pound beast.


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