The Billionaire Rancher's Neglected Wife

1. Freya

— ? —

Freya

The sunset painted everything gold, from the wine to the wildflowers to the man beside me.

I couldn’t stop staring at him. Rex Waller, all six-foot-three of him stretched out on a blanket like he owned this lake. Which, technically, he did. He owned the lake, the hundred thousand acres surrounding it, and as of exactly one year ago today, me.

Well, not literally me. Our marriage, the arrangement.

But God, looking at him right now with the fading light catching the silver at his temples and his sleeves rolled up past those forearms that made me lose my train of thought mid-sentence, it was easy to forget that this whole thing started with contracts and lawyers and my father’s gambling debts.

“I can feel your eyes, Freya,” Rex said without opening his eyes.

“I’m appreciating the scenery.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “The lake’s that way.”

“The lake doesn’t have forearms like that.”

He laughed, this low rumble in his chest that did something stupid to my insides, and finally looked at me. Those gray eyes always hit me like a sucker punch. Cold steel when he was in business mode. Something warmer when it was just us.

“Happy anniversary, Freya.”

I reached for my wine glass and took a sip, trying to act like my heart wasn’t doing backflips. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything.” He sat up and gestured at the spread between us. “The brie you mentioned at the dinner three months ago. The macarons from that Austin bakery you found on your phone and then never shut up about.”

“Wha- you caught all that?”

“You mentioned them four times. How can I miss that?”

I threw a grape at him. He caught it in his mouth because of course he did. Nothing about Rex Waller was ever less than annoyingly perfect.

“Okay, but did you plan all this yourself, or did you have Emilia handle it?”

The look he gave me could have melted steel. “I planned it. Every detail. Emilia doesn’t know your favorite flowers are wildflowers because they remind you of your mom’s garden. Emilia doesn’t know you hate roses because your aunt sent them after your mother’s funeral and now they make you sad.”

My throat tightened. “Rex.”

“I pay attention.” He said it simply. Like remembering the small pieces of my heart I’d accidentally handed him was just something husbands did.

Maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. My only frame of reference was my own parents, and my father had forgotten my mother’s birthday every single year of their marriage.

I set down my wine and crawled across the blanket to sit beside him, our shoulders touching. The lake stretched out before us, all pink and orange and perfect.

“Remember the wedding?” I asked.

Rex groaned. “Your father.”

“My father and the cake.”

“The man took a bite out of our wedding cake before we even cut it. With his hands.”

“In front of the entire reception.”

“Worse, in front of my mother.” Rex shook his head, but he was grinning. “I thought she was going to have him removed.”

“She wanted to. I saw her signal security.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did. Little hand wave.” I demonstrated. “Very subtle. Very Louisa.”

Rex laughed again, and I let myself sink into the sound of it. This was my favorite version of him. Not the Rex who ran a billion-dollar empire with an iron fist. Or the Rex whose name made grown men nervous. This one who laughed at stories about my drunk father and remembered my favorite cheese.

His phone rang.

The shift was immediate. His whole body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he glanced at the screen. When he answered, his voice could have frozen the lake solid.

“I thought I made myself clear about the Donovan account.” A pause. His eyes went flat. “Then let me make myself clearer. The deal is off. You have ten minutes to clear your desk.”

I watched him end the call and toss the phone into the grass. Three seconds of silence. Then he turned back to me, and the ice melted completely.

“Sorry. Where were we?”

The whiplash should have bothered me. It used to.

Now I understood that this was the gift.

The whole world got the cold, ruthless Rex Waller who fired people mid-picnic without blinking.

I was the only one who got this version.

Soft eyes, easy smile, warmth that nobody else would ever believe existed.

I was the only one who got to see him human.

“We were talking about how Louisa almost murdered my father with her eyes,” I said.

“Ah. Good times.” He reached over and pulled me into his lap like I weighed nothing, settling me against his chest so we could watch the colors bleed out of the sky together. “One year. Best decision I ever made.”

My heart stuttered.

Say it, I thought. Tell me you love me.

He’d never said it, not once in three hundred and sixty-five days.

He did not say it when he held me through my mother’s birthday, when I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

Not when I fell off Penny and he drove ninety miles an hour to the hospital, white-knuckled and silent.

And not during any of the quiet moments when he looked at me like I was something precious.

Best decision he ever made. That was so close.

But it wasn’t the same.

“You’re dissociating,” he murmured against my hair.

“Still appreciating the scenery.”

“Still not looking at the lake.”

“The lake doesn’t hold me like this.”

He made a satisfied sound and tightened his arms around me. “Damn right it doesn’t.”

I tilted my head back to look at him, and he was already looking at me, those gray eyes dark with something that made my stomach flip. His gaze dropped to my mouth.

“You know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“That you want to take me home and thoroughly appreciate our anniversary?”

“I was thinking we could skip the going home part.”

I glanced around at the empty lake, the private stretch of shoreline, the blanket big enough for two. “Rex Waller. Are you suggesting we defile your very expensive picnic setup?”

“I’m suggesting I’ve spent the last four hours watching you eat brie and talk with your hands and make those little sounds when you tried the macarons, and I’ve reached the end of my patience.”

“Those little sounds were perfectly normal sounds of appreciation.”

“Those little sounds are going to get you in trouble.” His hand slid up my thigh, slow and deliberate. “Tell me to stop.”

I didn’t tell him to stop.

I kissed him instead, and he answered like he’d been starving for it. One hand fisted in my hair, the other pressed to the small of my back, dragging me in until there was nothing left between us.

“Here?” I breathed against his mouth.

“Here.” He was already lowering me onto the blanket, settling his weight over me until my thoughts scattered. “I want to watch the stars come out while I’m inside you.”

Heat punched through me. “That’s very romantic of you.”

His mouth found my ear, voice gone rough. “I’m also the man who’s been hard since you made that sound over a macaron. So unless you tell me no, I’m going to fuck my wife on this blanket until she forgets her own name.”

“Then stop talking,” I whispered, “and do it.”

He laughed, pleased, and swallowed the sound with another kiss. His hands found the hem of my sundress and pushed it up, over my head, off into the grass. Cool air hit my skin. His eyes dragged over me like a touch.

“God.” He sounded wrecked already. “How are you real?”

“Genetics, mostly.”

“I’m being serious, Freya.” His palm dragged down my stomach, possessive. “You look like this and you still make jokes when I’m about to ruin you.”

“So ruin me.” It came out shakier than I wanted. “Stop staring and touch me.”

“Bossy.” He hooked his fingers in my underwear and pulled them down my legs. “I like it.”

His mouth went to my throat, then lower, open and hot against my breast, and I stopped trying to be funny because I couldn’t remember how. He sucked, slow, and my back arched off the blanket.

“Rex.”

“That’s it.” His hand slid between my thighs. Two fingers stroked through me, and he groaned like it hurt him. “Fuck. You’re soaked. All that wine and talking, and you were sitting there this wet for me?”

“You were the one watching me eat cheese like it was a crime.” I gasped when he pushed a finger inside, then another, curling. “Oh God. Don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing. I’m enjoying this.” His thumb found the spot that made my hips jerk. “Listen to you. My wife, spread out on my land, dripping on my blanket, telling me not to tease.”

“Rex, please.”

“Please what? Use your words.”

I grabbed his wrist and looked at him, because if he wanted words he was going to get them. “Please fuck me. I want you inside me. Now.”

His eyes went almost black. “Christ, Freya.”

Clothes gone. Then he was back over me, the thick heat of him sliding against where I ached. He didn’t look away when he pushed in. Neither did I. The stretch stole my breath, deep and so good I had to bite his shoulder to keep from crying out.

“Easy,” he murmured, though his voice was wrecked. “I’ve got you. Take it. That’s it. Fuck, you feel like heaven.”

“Move,” I whispered. “Rex, move.”

He did. Slow at first, deep, every stroke dragging against the place that made my vision blur. His forehead dropped to mine.

“You have no idea,” he said, hips rolling, “how many times today I thought about this. About getting you under me. About how tight you get when you’re close.”

“Then stop being careful.” I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him deeper, and we both swore. “I’m not going to break.”

“No.” Something possessive flashed across his face. “You’re going to come for me. Out here. Under the sky. And you’re going to look at me while you do it.”

He drove into me harder, and full sentences left me. Just his name, and yes, and don’t stop, my nails in his back. Stars started to appear overhead, a few at first, then more, while Rex took me apart on a blanket by the lake.

“Look at me.” Rough. Wanting. I did, because I always did when he used that voice. “There you are. So fucking beautiful like this. Taking me so well. Mine.”

“Yours.” It came out before I could stop it, raw and true. “Rex, I’m yours. Please. I’m so close.”

“I know. I can feel you.” His hand slid between us, thumb circling. “Come on, Freya. Let go. I want to see you.”

I let him see me. All of me. The way my breath caught when he hit that spot just right.

The way my fingers dug into his shoulders like I’d drown without something to hold onto.

And the way I said his name when everything finally crested and broke, shaking under him, clenching around him, not caring how loud I was because there was nobody for miles except the man watching me like I was the only thing in the world.

He followed with a groan that sounded torn out of him, burying himself deep, my name on his mouth like a prayer.

We lay together on the blanket, breathing hard and watching the Milky Way stretch across the sky. His heart pounded under my cheek.

I love you, I thought. I love you so much it terrifies me.

Do you love me too?

I almost asked. The words were right there, balanced on my tongue, ready to fall.

But something held me back. Fear, maybe.

Or self-preservation. If I asked and he didn’t say it back, I’d have to know.

Right now, I could pretend. Right now, I could believe that the way he looked at me meant what I wanted it to mean.

Ignorance wasn’t bliss, but it was easier.

My phone buzzed somewhere in the grass, shattering the moment. I groaned and reached for it, squinting at the screen.

A text from Louisa. My mother-in-law, who communicated exclusively through formal statements and passive-aggressive observations.

Arriving tomorrow with a guest. Make sure the guest room is ready.

I read it twice, then showed it to Rex. “Did you know about this?”

He frowned at the screen. “No. She usually tells me first.”

“A guest? She’s bringing a guest to our house without asking?”

“Mom still thinks every Waller house is hers. She doesn’t think she needs to ask.” He kissed my forehead like that made it better. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always do.”

And it never changes anything, I didn’t say.

Because I was trying not to ruin the anniversary. Because the stars were beautiful and his arms were warm and I didn’t want to fight about his mother again. And maybe, if I just kept being patient and perfect and understanding, eventually Louisa would accept me.

Or maybe I’d just keep lying on blankets, watching stars, waiting for words that never came.

Either way, tomorrow was a problem for tomorrow.