Chapter 19
Sadie
The sun hasn’t even burned through the morning haze yet, and I’m already out here with my brushes. The south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed catches the light early, and I like that—it makes the colors sharper, truer, like the world hasn’t had time to wear them down.
My hands are streaked with cobalt and ochre, palms dry from the chalk dust I use to sketch outlines before I commit to paint. Barefoot, because shoes only get in my way, I move between jars and trays, humming under my breath.
It’s quiet, except for the gulls overhead and the occasional car rolling down Main Street. The kind of quiet that makes me forget, for just a little while, that I’m always one blocked number away from my old life snapping back into place.
Then I hear boots on gravel.
“Hey,” Boone’s voice calls, deep and warm, and something in my chest skips a beat before I even turn around.
He’s standing there, tall and broad, his hair doing that stubborn sticking-up thing like he just ran his hands through it too many times. And in his hands? A brown paper bag and two takeout cups balanced carefully together.
My lips tug into a smile I don’t plan. “You bribing me with food now?”
His grin flashes, boyish and unguarded. “Figured an artist needs fuel. I stopped by Cora’s—got you a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Hope you like it sweet, because I don’t trust bitter.”
I wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my overalls and cross over to him, suddenly very aware of the paint streaks on my cheeks and the messy bun barely hanging on at the back of my head. He doesn’t seem to care, though. If anything, his eyes linger on my every movement.
“Thank you,” I murmur, accepting the cup first because the warmth feels good against my paint-chilled fingers.
He glances past me at the wall. “Looks good. Really good. You’re almost there.”
I follow his gaze. The phoenix is taking shape now, wings spread wide, fiery feathers erupting into oranges and pinks that cut against the old brick. It feels like a piece of me—something I didn’t think I could ever put out into the world and yet here it is, demanding attention.
“Probably be done in a day or two,” I admit softly. There’s pride in my voice, and that surprises me too. I haven’t let myself feel proud in a long time.
Boone’s eyes come back to me, steady and unflinching. And then, with a gentleness that knocks the air from my lungs, he reaches out and touches my cheek. Just the brush of his fingers against my skin, but it sends a shockwave straight through me. I don’t pull away. I don’t even think about it.
His thumb grazes over a smudge of paint at the corner of my jaw. “You’ve got half the mural on your face.”
“Comes with the territory,” I whisper, though my voice sounds different—softer, caught between nerves and something else I don’t want to name.
The corner of his mouth lifts like he’s fighting a smile. He drops his hand and then clears his throat. “I was thinking… maybe tonight you’d let me return the favor. Dinner, at my place.”
I blink. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” His tone is casual, but his eyes are anything but. “I cook. Or at least I try to. Nothing fancy, but I was wondering if you’d mind coming over. Maybe grilled chicken, something simple.”
For a moment, I’m back in Memphis. Invitations were never invitations there—they were orders. Come here, do this, belong to us. My body tenses before I can stop it, but Boone doesn’t push. He just waits, like my answer actually matters.
And the strangest thing? I want to say yes.
“I’d like that,” I hear myself say, and the giddiness that blooms in my chest is so unfamiliar it almost feels wrong. But it’s not wrong. Not this time.
His shoulders relax, like he wasn’t sure I’d agree. Then, as if emboldened, he leans a little closer. “Can I—” His voice drops. “Can I kiss you before I head out?”
Every nerve in my body lights up. I nod before my brain catches up.
And then he does.
It’s not a desperate kiss. Not a claiming, not a punishment, not a taking. Just lips against mine, warm and careful, like he’s asking the whole way through if I want this.
I do. God, I do.
My hands tremble as they find his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric to anchor myself because the ground feels unsteady.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless. My lips tingle. My chest feels like someone lit a sparkler inside it, burning bright and impossible to hide.
Boone smiles at me like I’ve just given him something priceless. “Tonight, then,” he says, voice rough.
I nod again, probably too fast, but I can’t stop the ridiculous grin tugging at my mouth. “Tonight.”
He leaves me standing there with my breakfast and my mural and the kind of wild, giddy excitement I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.
I press my fingers to my lips once he’s gone. It’s insane, really, how a single kiss can unravel me more than years of damage ever did. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Maybe never. And it terrifies me.
But it also… thrills me.
The mirror is cruel this evening. Or maybe it’s just honest.
I stand in front of it, tugging at the hem of my dress for the fifth time in as many minutes, and my reflection just looks… uncertain. The dress itself isn’t anything dramatic—simple, soft cotton, a muted teal that brushes my knees—but it feels more daring than anything I’ve worn in years.
I’ve painted in ripped overalls and stretched-out shirts until the fabric smelled permanently of turpentine. I’ve existed in anonymity. Tonight feels different.
My hands go up to my hair, fingers combing through strands that should have been dyed weeks ago. The pink I’d once thought bold now looks washed out, sun-faded at the ends. I mutter to myself that I’ll touch it up this weekend, though I don’t know if that’s for me or for him.
Why am I so freaking nervous?
It’s Boone. Boone, who brings me coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Boone, who asked before kissing me. Boone, who looks at me like I’m someone worth seeing instead of someone broken to be ignored or used.
And still, my stomach twists like I’m about to face a firing squad.
The knock comes, sharp and sure, and I jump. My palms are damp. My heart is a traitor pounding in my throat.
I open the door.
Boone stands there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, veins and muscle corded and strong like he just walked out of some fantasy I never let myself have.
His hair is tamed only slightly, like he made the attempt but gave up halfway through.
In his hands is a small bouquet of wildflowers, colorful and imperfect in the most beautiful way.
My breath catches.
“Hey,” he says softly, holding them out.
I take them, careful not to smudge my dress with paint-stained fingers I scrubbed at until they were raw. “You brought me flowers?”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Seemed like the thing to do. Thought you’d like them.”
Like them? My chest feels too full. I manage a whisper. “They’re beautiful.”
Before I can step back, his gaze sweeps over me, and it’s like being touched without contact. “And you…” His voice dips lower. “You look fantastic.”
The heat in my cheeks nearly sets me on fire. I fumble, reaching for the bottle of wine I’d set by the door. “I, uh, I picked this up. Thought it might go with dinner. I don’t actually know what you’re making, so—”
He winces, almost sheepishly. “About that. There’s something I should probably tell you before we head out.”
I tilt my head, suspicious. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not bad,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, had a little trouble with my oven. Don’t laugh—it’s older than sin, and something went wrong with the pilot light. So I asked Gabe to use his grill instead.”
I blink at him. “You… asked Gabe to cook?”
“Well,” Boone says slowly, “it sort of turned into him inviting Shepard too. Pack dinners happen, you know how it goes. But”—his hand lifts, reassuring—“if you’d rather skip it, I totally get it. We can go into town, hit the fish shack or something. Just us.”
For a beat, panic whispers at the edges of my ribs. Dinner with all three of them? It feels too close, too much. But then I catch the way Boone’s watching me, nervous in a way I don’t think he shows many people. He wants this to work, but he’s giving me the out.
I swallow. “I don’t mind,” I say finally. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Really.”
Relief breaks across his face like sunrise. “Okay. Good.”
He leans in then, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something warm, clean, threaded with cedar. His lips brush mine in a kiss that starts soft, then deepens without warning. I gasp against him, my hand clutching the flowers too tightly, and suddenly my back hits the cool metal of his truck.
His mouth is hot and certain, his body crowding mine just enough to make me dizzy. I haven’t been kissed like this—like I’m wanted, like someone’s starved for me—in so long that my knees actually weaken.
When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, I can barely think.
“God,” I whisper. “What are you doing to me?”
He grins, not cocky but tender, like he’s just as dazed as I am. “Asking you out. Again.”
The nervous laugh that escapes me breaks the spell just enough to move. I tuck the flowers safely inside, grab my bag and the wine, and let him lead me to the passenger side.
Inside the car, I’m quiet, twisting the wine label between my fingers. Boone starts the engine, glances at me once, then again.
“You okay?” he asks.
I hesitate, then exhale the truth. “I can’t remember the last time I was on a date.”
His hand finds mine, warm and steady. He lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, like I’m something precious.
“We can turn back,” he murmurs. “No shame in it. We don’t have to do this tonight.”
My throat tightens. The offer is real—no strings, no manipulation, no punishment for saying no. And that’s exactly why I shake my head.
“No,” I say, softer than a whisper. “It’s all good. I want to.”
“You sure, baby?”