BOONE
BOONE
I’m standing on Lark’s porch with a bunch of wildflowers in my hand, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
I picked them this afternoon out by the fence line behind the barn, right after putting Springsteen up for the night.
No daisies this time, nothing fancy—just whatever caught my eye and made me think of her.
Yellow, purple, some little white ones I don’t know the names of.
Not exactly florist material. I probably should’ve just bought some from the damn store, but that doesn’t feel like her. This does.
I tug at the collar of my shirt—a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans that fit right, the good boots.
The ones not caked in mud. Exactly what you wear to a dive bar on a Friday night in Montana.
It’s not a tux, but it’s clean, and it doesn’t smell like the ranch. I figure that’s enough.
Still, I feel like I’m seventeen again, standing on her porch, heart beating too damn fast, palms a little sweaty.
Which is ridiculous. It’s Lark. I’ve known her my whole life.
I’ve seen her naked, in every sense of the word.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a dumbass teenager about to take his crush to the movies.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looks when she’s lost in thought, how her mouth moves when she’s trying not to smile. The sound she makes when she’s wrapped around me, skin on skin, nails in my back. That one’s been haunting me all fucking week.
Her boots hit the hardwood on the other side of the door—slow, steady steps coming toward me. My grip tightens on the flowers, heart knocking against my ribs like it’s got no common sense.
The lock clicks, the door swings open, and my brain just— stops .
She’s standing there, backlit by the light inside, and for a second, I forget how to function.
Her hair’s down, long and wavy, catching the light like it’s doing it on purpose.
That denim skirt—short, dangerously short—hugs her hips, riding up just enough to make my thoughts start to spiral.
My eyes drop to her legs—long, smooth, tanned.
Then back up to the sleeveless denim top, tied just above her stomach, showing off a sliver of skin I want to put my hands on.
My tongue on. She smells like something expensive—something I want on my skin and her breasts are pushed up just enough to make it hard to remember why I’m here and not dragging her back upstairs.
My mouth’s dry. Completely useless.
“You gonna come in for a sec?” she asks, leaning against the door frame, eyebrow raised. “Or were you planning on staying out here all night?”
I blink. Shit. I’ve been standing here, just staring at her like a goddamn idiot.
I clear my throat and step inside, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click. Her place smells like vanilla and something sweeter—maybe that perfume she’s wearing, the one that hijacked every coherent thought I had the second I caught a whiff of it.
Before I can say anything, Miller barrels into view, arms loaded with what looks like half her wardrobe and a pair of heels dangling from her fingers. She stops when she sees me, eyes scanning me from boots to collar like she’s checking for flaws.
“Well, would you look at that,” she says, tilting her head, a slow grin pulling at her mouth. “Cowboys can clean up nice.”
I glance at the mountain of clothes in her arms. “You moving in somewhere? ”
She shrugs, unbothered. “Lark had a fashion emergency. Someone had to intervene. You’re welcome.”
“Appreciate your service.”
She shoots Lark a knowing look, then blows her a kiss. “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then she breezes past me, heels clicking, calling over her shoulder, “Which, for the record, isn’t much.”
The door swings shut again, and it’s just us.
Lark turns toward me, and I hold out the wildflowers. “These are for you.”
Her face softens, eyes lighting up as she takes them. “Boone, thank you. They’re so pretty.”
I step closer, dipping my head until my mouth brushes hers. “You’re so pretty.”
She gives me that smile, the one that gets me every damn time, and sets the flowers down on the coffee table.
Before she can turn away, I slide my hands to her face and kiss her again—deeper this time, slower.
Her lips part against mine, and I feel her laugh, soft and breathy, pressed right up against me.
God, I love that.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “We should probably go.”
I let out a low groan, peppering kisses along the edge of her jaw. “Do we have to?”
“Boone—” she starts, but I’ve already got my hand under the hem of that little top, fingers gliding up over bare skin.
“I can think of some other things we could do here instead,” I murmur against her neck.
She rolls her eyes, swats at my chest. “Down, boy.”
I let my hands drop, watching her cross the room to grab her purse.
That damn mini skirt? Criminal.
The curve of her ass in it? Even worse.
And those white cowgirl boots?
A personal fucking attack.
Jesus. I’m already hard and we haven’t even made it out the damn door .
I’ve got no idea how I’m supposed to survive the night without combusting or dragging her into the nearest dark corner.
Or both.
She tosses her purse strap over her shoulder, glancing at me as she tucks her phone inside. “How was Hudson?”
It takes me a second to catch up—my brain’s still face-down on the floor somewhere between the swing of her hips and that dangerously short skirt—but I manage to drag myself back to reality. Barely.
“He’s doing good,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck. “He and my mom started Tombstone with Loretta.”
Lark freezes mid-step, turning slowly toward me. “ Tombstone? ”
I shrug, half-grinning. “Nothing too bad.”
She stares at me, completely deadpan, and it makes me want to laugh—this look, like she’s waiting for me to dig my own grave. I can’t help it.
“It’s educational,” I add. “History.”
“ Boone! ” she says, smacking my shoulder. “He’s twelve .”
“He’s twelve and deeply committed to cowboy culture,” I counter, grabbing her hand before she can pull it away. “Besides, my sisters were watching too. They’re well-trained. They’ll do the whole hands-over-eyes thing when it starts to get dicey.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like “unbelievable,” but she doesn’t let go.
I tug her a little closer, brushing my thumb over her knuckles, trying not to smile too much when she lets me. “You’ve never let him sleep over anywhere before, have you?”
She shakes her head, and her voice drops. “Nope. It’s weird. Like…I know it’s fine, but it still feels wrong. I keep thinking I’m forgetting something important.”
“You’re not,” I say, quiet now. “You’re just a good mom.”
Then I lean in and kiss her—nothing rushed. Just enough to remind her I’m right here. When I pull back, she’s still close, still holding on.
“You ready to go raise a little hell?”
She grins and nods, and I lead her outside into the early evening light where Lucille is waiting in the driveway. I open the door for her and help her in, my hand on the small of her back. Her skirt rides up as she climbs into the seat like it’s got a personal vendetta against my sanity.
I immediately start praying for strength or a distraction or a well-timed thunderstorm. Anything to stop my dick from getting hard.
No luck.
By the time I shut the door and circle around to the driver’s side, I’m already in the middle of a full-blown internal crisis.
She buckles her seatbelt and looks around the cab like she’s expecting a crime scene. “I’m…weirdly impressed. It’s clean.”
I glance over. “You say that like I’m usually not clean.”
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I remember this truck in high school. Pretty sure I stepped on a ketchup packet and a condom wrapper in the same ten seconds.”
I snort. “Wow. Thanks for that visual. And by the way? You were the one who left chili cheese fries in the cupholder when I let you borrow it.”
“Absolutely not,” she says, already yanking open the glovebox, rummaging through napkins and old receipts. “That was all you—”
She freezes. Gasps.
“Oh my god.”
She holds up a sun-bleached Dixie Chicks CD like it’s the Holy Grail. “This is mine! ”
I glance at it, then back at the road. “Nope. That’s mine.”
She gapes at me. “Boone! You once said they sounded like ‘music for cowgirls with trust issues.’”
“Yeah, and now I date one.”
She cackles, holding the CD to her chest. “I knew I left this in here senior year. It’s mine.”
“You left it,” I say. “Abandonment equals forfeiture. It’s the law.”
“Not a real law.”
“Truck law,” I counter. “My cab, my CD. Very official.”
She narrows her eyes. “Okay then. If it’s yours, name your top three songs.”
“Easy,” I say, counting them off on my fingers. “Cowboy Take Me Away. Sin Wagon. Wide Open Spaces.”
She blinks. “You remembered Sin Wagon? ”
I smirk. “Knew it’d impress you.”
She shakes her head with a laugh, putting the CD back in the glovebox. “You’re the worst. ”
“And yet here you are. Voluntarily in my truck.”
She looks out the window, trying not to smile. “Terrible decisions build character.”
I laugh, low and rough, and reach over without thinking—hand landing on her thigh, fingers slipping just under the edge of that sinfully short denim skirt, brushing warm skin that has no business being this soft.
And while I may be driving, my brain is already halfway to pulling over and pushing her up against the nearest flat surface.
I’ve missed her and I’m hanging on by a goddamn thread.
She shifts a little in her seat but doesn’t move my hand. Just glances at me sideways, the corner of her mouth lifting like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.