Love Me Not (Wildflower Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SADIE

I shouldn’t be here.

But it’s too late to turn back. The heavy weight of regret hums beneath my skin like static.

The bass trembles through the walls, low and steady, like a heartbeat. Light spills out from the open doorway—dim, but still too bright against the dark stretch of sky behind me. I hover at the edge, breath caught in my throat, fingertips tingling.

People only talk about fight-or-flight when describing the body’s physiological reactions to a perceived threat, forgetting the third F—and the most fatal: freeze.

Which is, unfortunately, my brain’s go-to response in any situation.

A hand slips into mine—warm, familiar fingers interlacing with my own before tugging me forward.

I stumble over the threshold, heels clicking across the polished concrete floors.

So pretentious.

Glancing up, my eyes meet Mia’s, glittering beneath the stilted lighting. She grins at me, flashing me a look that says trust me, and even though every nerve in my body is screaming this is a bad idea, I follow her.

The air smells like champagne and something sharp and sweet I can’t name. My chest tightens, and Mia must feel the tremor wrecking through me because she slows, looking at me over her bare shoulder.

“Just breathe,” she whispers.

I nod, ignoring the little voice in my head that is screaming now.

Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.

I swallow it down, plaster on a smile, and keep walking, doing what I do best: pretending.

Pretend this isn’t a mistake. Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I belong. Pretend I’m not already in way over my head.

The mansion is a cold, theatrical display of wealth. A perfect example of the saying just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

I’d bet a million dollars whoever lives here thinks he’s revolutionary for tearing down the original house and replacing it with this brutalistic monstrosity.

If this party were in any other neighborhood, there would’ve been a multitude of noise complaints.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that money can buy anything—even silence.

We bump into people as we weave farther into the house. The whispers, gasps, and murmurs are impossible to ignore, even over the deafening bass. People have nothing better to do than gossip and spread rumors.

The double takes before leaning and whispering and giggling into their friends’ ears get old really fast, but they’re inevitable. Especially with Mia.

She tugs me toward the bar off to the side, staffed with two male bartenders mixing drinks in their monochrome black uniforms.

I spot Tori almost immediately. She’s batting her eyelashes at the blonde as he pours an espresso martini and slides it in front of a woman who is, without a doubt, in denial about her age, given her stiff and emotionless face.

But he’s entranced, unable to take his eyes off my redheaded friend as she leans over the bar top, pushing her cleavage together and giving him a full view down her low-cut dress.

I’ve never understood the games my friends like to play with people. I’m not a prude by any means—but I’m also not reckless. All I want is to find my person and live a happy, peaceful life.

Mia and I share a look, slipping past our friend and moving to the opposite end of the bar to order drinks. She is supposed to be keeping a low profile, but trouble always seems to have a way of finding her.

She’s never been good at doing what people tell her to, her manager included. But it’s one of the things I love most about her. She’s not afraid to be exactly who she is, consequences be damned.

The energy around us is intoxicating and terrifying all at once. Mia orders two vodka sodas, but I shake my head. The last thing I need is alcohol clouding my mind tonight.

Because tonight isn’t just a party. It’s the night.

The night I finally sleep with Kolson Kennedy.

I slowly scan the sea of bodies packed around us, but my search comes up empty, and I can’t help the sinking feeling deep in my chest.

Where is he?

Mia gives my hand a squeeze. “He’s probably waiting to make his grand entrance,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically as she sips through her straw.

Kol and Mia have never gotten along, and she’s never hidden that she thinks I can do better.

I don’t know if you could call what Kol and I have a relationship. He hasn’t officially asked me to be his girlfriend or anything, but Kolson Kennedy doesn’t have girlfriends.

He’s dated, sure—if that’s what you call having a new model or influencer on his arm at every event or party.

But never girlfriends.

He comes from a very prominent, affluent, and powerful family and they’re…particular about who they associate themselves with—Kolson included.

I don’t know why I try so hard.

Once, Kol was on the front page for a week after being photographed buying a box of condoms from a gas station at one a.m.

I cried that entire weekend.

Not because I was shocked. I knew he was sleeping around. I wasn’t that delusional. I cried because he wasn’t using them with me.

But none of it mattered. I didn’t care about his last name, or his money, or the painfully beautiful girls he paraded around. I wanted to be wanted by him.

Even if it was only once.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, half-lost in the thrum of bass and murmurs.

A sudden tug on my shoulders yanks me out of my spiral. I stumble back, heart skipping, and look up into a pair of deep brown eyes—Tori.

“Sadie Marie Becker,” she says, voice sharp, playful, impossible to ignore, as she holds me in place.

“Not even my middle name—“

She leans closer, her red hair brushing my shoulder. “We’re here to have fun. Forget about him! Dance, flirt, find someone who is actually worthy of your affection. Oh, shit! I think that’s the guy from The White Lotus. I’ll be right back.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah,” Mia quips, completely monotone, before turning back to me. “She’s not coming back.”

“Nope,” I reply, popping the P. “But she was right. This is our last summer together and we are here to have fun.” I shrug.

Mia grins, pulling me deeper into the crowd where we dance, getting lost in the heavy thump of the bass.

“I have to pee!” I shout to Mia, my voice barely audible over the pounding music.

“What?” she shouts back, pointing to her ear.

“Where. Is. The. Bathroom?” I mouth, over-enunciating each word in hopes she can read my lips.

Her mouth forms an O, and she points toward the hallway behind the DJ’s setup. “I’ll come with you,” she yells over the music.

As we weave through the crowd, her hand is suddenly ripped from mine. I spin around just in time to see Mia thrown over the muscular shoulder of some guy who clearly has the build of a professional athlete. I don’t know his name, but with Mia, they’re never around long enough for it to matter.

Whatever. I’m a big girl. I can handle finding the bathroom on my own.

I finally shuffle and squeeze my way through, stumbling into the nearly empty hallway. I pause. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a party that didn’t have a line for the bathroom. I shrug it off, my need to pee outweighing everything else as the click of my heels echoes around me.

“Hi.”

A deep voice vibrates down the long hallway. Calm and way too close. I jolt, nearly tripping over my own feet. A pair of rough hands catches me—like they had already been waiting.

“Whoa, careful,” he says smoothly.

I look up.

The blood drains from my face. Of all the people I could’ve literally stumbled into, why did it have to be him?

He releases me slowly, his touch lingering long enough to make my skin crawl.

On the surface, he’s classically handsome. He’s tall, broad, and too well-dressed for a casual house party. His blonde hair is swept back, jaw lined with faint scruff. But I know the kind of person he is beneath the smoke and mirrors.

Gideon Cross. My father’s client.

“What are you doing here?” he asks casually, his brow lifting. “You’re Warren Becker’s daughter, right?”

His tone is polite. Curious, even. But it still sends a ripple of dread down my spine.

“I—yeah,” I say, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. I clear my throat. “I’m Sadie.”

I don’t offer a hand. I don’t want him to touch me again.

He smiles—slow and knowing—then turns to grab two glasses of amber liquid from a table behind him. “Well, that makes this even more interesting.”

He hands one to me.

I take it because I don’t know what else to do. But I don’t drink.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his glass toward mine. “Not a whiskey girl?”

I force a tight smile. “Not really.”

He chuckles, lifting his glass for a sip. “I’m insulted. That pour is worth twelve hundred dollars.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Bill my father.”

His smile sharpens. “Come on. Just a little sip. It’s my birthday, after all.”

My eyes slide in the direction of the distant crowd. Laughter and music thump faintly from the main room. I’m alone back here. With him.

But nothing’s technically wrong.

It’s just a hallway. Just a man. Just a drink.

But it’s never just those things, and my stomach twists in a way I’ve learned not to ignore. I know this feeling. I grew up surrounded by men who smile like him. Monsters masquerading as gentlemen.

I’m overthinking. I always do. Right? But I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to make it worse.

I lift the glass and take the smallest sip imaginable. It’s the equivalent of dipping my tongue in mouthwash. It burns, harsh and smoky and bitter.

“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “Still don’t like whiskey.”

He laughs again, but it doesn’t feel light anymore. His eyes rake over me like a predator sizing up his prey. My stomach twists, and I have to force myself to breathe.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

“Are you even old enough to be here?” he asks, head cocked. “You look like fucking jailbait in that dress.”