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ππ
πππ πππ πππππ (The Wildhaven Ranch Series: Book 4) by Amber Kelly is #NowLive. Grab your copy now!
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π Link in bio @authoramberkelly
π️Cover Designer: Perfect Pear Creative
π·Photographer: Regina Wamba
What to expect:
πΎSmall Town
πΎWestern Ranch
πΎAge Gap
πΎWorkplace Boss
πΎOpposites Attract
I grew up on Wildhaven Storm Ranch, raised on hard work, determination, and tradition. Now I’m fresh out of college and chasing a dream that feels just out of reach—working at the historic Belicourt Resort Hotel while trying to convince my oldest sister, Matty, to let me turn part of our family land into a guest ranch and spa.
The Belicourt has a long-standing reputation for being haunted—full of whispered legends, unexplained sightings, and guests who swear they’re not alone in its halls. I think it’s charming. Mysterious. Marketable. My new boss, Porter Garrison, doesn’t agree. He’s all rules, rigid schedules, and closed doors, and he’d much rather I stick to spreadsheets than old legends and small-town folklore.
But I see potential in the past—in the stories people tell. And behind his cool, controlled exterior and expensive suit, I see the man beneath—the cowboy full of fire and buried passion he’s trying desperately to hide.
REVIEW: AFTER THE STORM (WILDHAVEN RANCH #4) BY AMBER KELLY
After the Storm by Amber KellyMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
The heat and heart are worth the trip, but it's the little moments that keep me coming back for more. Wild Haven Ranch blends sweet romance and spicy attraction to create a feast for the soul. From sensual overload to feelings that sneak up and haunt you with every turn of a page, After the Storm is Amber Kelly at her finest. Endearing delivers unforgettable as it dares to reveal it's truth.
View all my reviews
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#Excerpt
Ranch stories. College stories. Conference planning ideas.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize something unsettling.
I’m enjoying myself.
More than I should.
Because the truth is … I shouldn’t be here with her. Talking about personal things.
Getting distracted by the way candlelight catches in the silky strands of her hair.
My brain keeps reminding me of the line I shouldn’t cross.
She’s young. And she works for me.
This should be professional. Strictly professional.
But every time she laughs … or leans forward excitedly to explain something … or pushes her hair behind her ear …
That line starts to blur.
I take a sip of bourbon.
Focus.
“So,” I say, shifting the conversation, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“That tattoo.”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What tattoo?”
“The one above your collarbone.”
Her eyes widen.
Way to keep things professional.
“How did you …”
“I saw a little of it. Your first day.”
She looks confused.
“The white sweater,” I remind her.
Understanding dawns.
“Oh. Right.” She laughs softly. “I didn’t realize it was visible until it was too late.”
“Just the edge. I couldn’t really make it out.”
She studies me curiously. There’s a brief pause in conversation. Then something mischievous sparks in her eyes.
“Well …”
She reaches for the buttons of her blouse.
My brain short-circuits.
“Harleigh—”
But she’s already unbuttoning the top three.
Then she slips her right arm out of the sleeve. The fabric falls away from her shoulder. And suddenly, the tattoo is fully visible.
Black ink curls across her skin in elegant script, running from the top of her shoulder toward her throat.
My mouth goes dry as I read the words.
She’s not just a fire.
She’s wildfire.
Geezus.
The curve of the lettering follows the line of her collarbone perfectly.
My eyes track it before I can stop myself.
She watches me read it.
Unapologetic.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “It’s, um … yeah.”
She grins. Then she slides her arm back into the sleeve and begins buttoning her blouse again, like she didn’t just completely derail my ability to think.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“I was born premature. On April Fools’ Day. Making me an Aries. The fire sign. My mom used to joke that I came into the world like a wildfire.” She taps her shoulder, where the tattoo sits beneath the fabric. “She started calling me Wildfire.”
I study her. That’s definitely not the answer I was expecting. I figured it was some silly quote she’d picked out of a binder in a tattoo parlor.
“It fits you,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse.
She blushes slightly.
Which surprises me. Because Harleigh Storm doesn’t seem like the type to blush easily.
“What about you? Any hidden ink?”
“I have a few.”
“Really? Where?”
For a beat, the air between us feels … charged.
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