Chapter 8 Boone
CHAPTER EIGHT
Boone
The house is quiet when I wake.
It usually is early on Saturdays. Sadie will sleep in a bit, which buys me an hour or two of work before the day really starts.
I look at the list waiting where I dropped it last night.
Feed inventory.
Fence line repair.
Call the contractor.
Two mares due to foal.
Carol Spence and her damn Mother’s Day agenda…
Coffee.
I need coffee.
I walk toward the kitchen expecting stillness, the familiar ache of a house that hasn’t felt truly alive in a long time.
Instead, I hear laughter.
Warm, unrestrained laughter.
The sound hits me square in the chest before I even turn the corner.
I stop in the doorway.
And I forget how to breathe.
Delaney is standing at the island, hair piled on her head in a messy knot that she probably shoved up with both hands. There’s flour on her cheek, on her jaw, even on the little bow of light brown hair at her temple.
Next to her, Sadie stands on a chair, apron swallowing half her body, arms sticky with batter, grinning ear to ear.
They’re baking.
Both of them, my daughter and the woman stirring the bowl, look happy. Truly happy.
It hits hard enough that I have to grip the doorway for half a second.
“Okay,” Delaney breathes gently, tapping the spoon against the bowl, “not too fast this time. Slow circles. Like you’re drawing a spiral.”
Sadie nods at this sacred knowledge. “A spiral like a tornado?”
Delaney laughs, that breathy, warm sound that does something to my chest I’d rather not examine. “Exactly like a tornado. A controlled tornado.”
Sadie starts stirring again, slow for three seconds, then enthusiastically enough to slosh batter onto her apron.
“Oops,” she whispers.
Delaney leans over, bumping her shoulder lightly. “That’s not an oops. That’s flair.”
Sadie giggles, flour puffing off her as she wiggles. “Daddy says I have… um… big energy.”
Delaney snorts. “Big energy is important for baking. It keeps the muffins on their toes.”
“Muffins don’t have toes,” Sadie laughs, scandalized.
“Not with that attitude,” Delaney counters.
Sadie laughs so hard she snorts, and Delaney covers her mouth, trying not to laugh too.
And something in me… fucking stops.
My whole body forgets how to function for one long, dangerous second, like somebody yanked the cord on a machine that’s been running too hard for too long.
Her smile, her warmth, the way she bends down to Sadie’s height, the soft tilt of her head when she listens…
The way her shirt lifts slightly when she reaches for the vanilla, revealing a small strip of skin at her waist…
The curve of her hip as she turns…
The faint pink flush on her throat from the oven heat…
It all hits me at once.
Hard.
Too hard.
Sadie points at the measuring cup. “Can I do the sugar?”
“Of course,” Delaney says. “But remember the rule.”
“What rule?” Sadie asks.
Delaney leans in conspiratorially. “No sugar avalanches.”
Sadie nods solemnly. “I will avoid avalanches.”
Delaney hands her the cup, covering Sadie’s hand with her own. “Slow pour. Like a snowflake drifting down.”
Sadie mimics her voice perfectly. “A snowflaaaake.”
Delaney laughs again, her hand guiding Sadie’s with a tenderness that damn near knocks me flat.
She’s good with her.
So good it hurts.
So good it scares me.
And underneath the part that scares me?
My pulse is too fast.
My palms are trembling.
And there’s a heavy heat low in my belly I haven’t felt in years, not from something as simple as her laugh.
This is wrong.
Dangerous.
Forbidden.
And absolutely impossible to ignore.
I need to speak, to distract myself from all of this somehow.
Say anything.
“This is new,” I manage.
They glance over, and seeing Delaney’s eyes land on me is stepping into heat.
“Daddy!” Sadie squeals. “We’re making blueberry muffins!”
There’s a second bowl on the counter too, darker batter covered with a plastic wrap, tucked off to the side. Brownies, if I had to guess. Breakfast now, chocolate later. Sadie hasn’t stopped talking about baking with Delaney since last night.
“So I see.”
Delaney wipes at her cheek, smears flour higher, and offers me a small smile that damn near knocks my ribs loose.
“She asked what chefs make for breakfast,” she giggles. “I didn’t realize it was a test.”
Her smile deepens, and my stomach tightens.
“You passed,” I say gruffly. “She hasn’t wanted to cook with anyone in a while.”
Sadie’s face flickers, the joy dipping.
Delaney notices it instantly, as if she’s known my kid longer than three days.
“Sadie,” she murmurs, nudging her. “Show your dad your egg-cracking technique.”
Sadie giggles. “Miss Delaney said it was art.”
“Abstract art,” Delaney corrects, her lips twitching.
I step closer.
And I immediately regret it.
Because suddenly I can smell her—vanilla, warm butter, lemon zest—and my body reacts crazily.
She’s small beside me, close enough that our arms brush. Not even a full touch, just a whisper of contact, but my heart kicks, trying to break free.
Her head tilts up, eyes catching mine.
Big. Brown. Soft.
And for a second, just one, my breath stops.
Just gone.
Because she’s pretty, yes. Anyone can see she’s pretty.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way she looks at me.
To her, I’m not just heavy. I’m not made of old wounds and responsibilities and the kind of history that sticks to a man.
It’s the way she stands so damn close without fear.
It’s the way her laugh still lingers in the room, warming all the cold places Sadie and I have lived inside.
Heat shoots through me, pooling in places I’ve ignored for years.
No, absolutely not. I step back abruptly, and her eyes flicker with confusion.
I clear my throat. “Work to do. Morning chores.”
I sound ridiculous. A teenager caught staring. Work is safer. Fences don’t smile at you. Horses don’t make you forget how old you are.
“Boone.”
I freeze.
I shouldn’t freeze at the sound of my own name leaving her mouth, but I do.
She brushes her cheek again and offers me a smile. “The muffins will be ready soon. You can have one before you head out.”
And I swear the kitchen tilts.
It’s nothing.
Just kindness.
Just an offer of food.
But coming from her…
“Save me one,” I mutter.
She nods.
“Two,” Sadie demands. “Big ones.”
Her face is so bright, so full of light I haven’t seen in weeks, that my throat goes tight.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “All right.”
I retreat, too fast, too stiff, out the back door, letting the cold morning smack into me, and the truth hits me with brutal clarity:
Delaney Rivers is dangerous. Worse, I want her. Body, mind, all of it leaning in a direction it has no business leaning. She’s too young, too vulnerable, too close, too bright, and far, far too off limits. But want doesn’t give a damn about limits.
I exhale hard, gripping the porch railing until the wood creaks beneath my hands.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
Because for a single heartbeat in that kitchen…
I wasn’t standing near an employee.
Or a complication.
Or a mistake waiting to happen.
I was standing near a woman I wanted.
Badly.