Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Delaney
There are some days when the kitchen feels like the only place I still remember how to be a person.
Today is one of those.
Late afternoon wraps itself around the ranch house, soft and lazy. Sadie’s home from school, but everyone’s in that quiet lull before their stomachs remember dinner exists. The windows are cracked, letting in a breeze that smells of sun-warmed hay, pine, and dust.
The radio’s on low, some old country playlist Boone swears he “doesn’t really like” but never actually turns off.
My sleeves are rolled, hair twisted on top of my head, and held there with one of Sadie’s neon scrunchies that looks like it escaped a Lisa Frank notebook.
There’s a whole chicken roasted in the oven, the atmosphere overwhelmed with rosemary, lemon, garlic, and butter. Potatoes are parboiled and waiting to be smashed and crisped. A salad half assembled on the counter. A pan heating on the back burner until the oil shimmers just right.
And finally, my brain is quiet enough that I… sing.
It’s stupid. I don’t have a voice like Roman or half of Coyote Glen on open mic night, but the house feels safe and the radio’s soft and my hands know what they’re doing. So I hum along, low and under my breath.
“...baby, you’re the only home I know…
I mouth more of the words than I actually sing, swaying as I drizzle more olive oil into the cast iron. The chorus lifts, and I lean into it, spinning once, spoon in hand, hips moving, pretending for one bright second that I’m not built from stress and fear and caffeine.
The spoon clatters against the counter when I misjudge my spin.
Oil burbles, pooling in a glossy wave across the pan.
My wrist clips the handle.
The pan jerks.
A neat arc of hot oil flips over the edge and splatters onto the floor with a soft, sinister splut.
“Oh, crap…”
I lunge for the paper towels, but my heel hits the slick spot before my hand finds anything.
The world slides sideways.
My stomach drops.
For one awful suspended heartbeat, I’m certain I’m about to do the world’s most catastrophic split and crack at least eight important bones.
I don’t hit the floor.
Strong hands clamp around my waist, hard and sure, yanking me backward against a solid wall of heat.
“Easy,” a deep voice rumbles right by my ear.
I gasp.
Boone.
My hands fly out, catching the counter, then skidding uselessly across it. His grip tightens, one big palm flattening over my stomach, anchoring me back from the edge of total disaster.
The radio keeps playing, oblivious.
My heart is committing several counts of aggravated assault.
“I…” I swallow. “I almost died.”
His chest moves against my back, a huff of dry amusement I feel more than hear. “You didn’t almost die.”
“Severe maiming, then.”
“I had you.”
I can feel all of him pressed against me. His forearms braced along my ribs, the firm line of his thighs solid behind mine, the weight of his chest against my shoulder blades. He’s big enough that I feel surrounded. Contained.
Safe.
I should not like that as much as I do.
“Are you hurt?”
“My pride,” I manage.
“Anything that actually matters?”
I stare down at my traitorous feet, now safely planted. “No. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
The radio drifts into a slower song, steel guitar and heartache, and the kitchen seems to hold its breath with us. His thumb shifts once, a small, unconscious drag over the fabric of my shirt at my waist.
I forget how to breathe for half a second.
“Boone,” I whisper, “you can let go now.”
He doesn’t. Not immediately.
There’s a beat where the only sounds are the low thrum of music and the faint hum of the oven, and in that space, the whole room tilts.
Then, slowly, his hands ease away.
I step forward, barely a foot, but the loss of contact feels bigger. Colder.
He moves around me in three efficient strides, grabs the roll of paper towels, and drops it in front of the spill with almost military precision. “You should’ve wiped that up right away.”
And just like that, Boss Boone is back, and my temper flares in self-defense.
“I was going to,” I snap. “Right before gravity tried to murder me.”
He huffs as he crouches to blot the mess. “You have to assume anything on this floor is out to get you. We’ve had three grown men almost break their necks on muddy boot prints alone.”
I grab another wad of paper towels and drop to my knees beside him. If he thinks I’m going to stand here while he cleans up my mess like I’m some helpless damsel, he’s out of his mind.
Up close, I notice sawdust scattered on his jeans, the frayed seam at his knee, the strong curve of his fingers as he presses towels into the oil. When our hands brush, his completely dwarfs mine, and a little electric shiver shoots up my arm.
We both freeze.
His eyes flick up to mine. Blue. Dark. Focused.
Everything goes too quiet.
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” he replies.
It isn’t meant to soothe, but to state a fact he’s already filed under things he trusts about me.
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
We both look away at the same time, turning back to the floor like the oil stain is the most fascinating thing we’ve ever seen.
When the worst of it’s gone, I toss the soggy paper into the trash and push to my feet, hands braced briefly on my thighs.
Boone rises too.
He’s so close I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“You should mop later.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Romantic.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. It curls my insides.
“Didn’t realize you were expecting romance out of a near brain injury.”
“What can I say? I have high standards.”
I turn back to the stove, reaching for the pan I nearly baptized myself with, because if I don’t give my hands something to do, they’re going to attempt something very stupid.
“Everything okay?” he asks after a moment.
The question hits me sideways.
It’s not the first time he’s asked anything like that.
The problem isn’t that he asks.
It’s that I want to answer.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He doesn’t buy it. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. Sturdy, assessing, heavier than his hands had felt on my waist.
I stare at the oil in the pan as if I can will it to shimmer faster. “You?”
He grunts.
Boone’s patented version of not fine.
“How’d the school thing go?” I ask carefully.
His silence stretches a fraction too long.
“You know,” he continues, finally. “Fire trucks, foam, kids trying to set each other on fire.”
“Standard Monday.”
“Yeah.”
In the reflection of the stove hood, I can see him leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. The memory is grinding his teeth from the inside.
“Sadie have fun?”
Another pause.
“She said she did.”
My stomach dips.
“But…” I nudge softly.
He exhales through his nose, harsh and frustrated. “But she’s been quiet since.”
I turn my head just enough to see him.
“Someone said something,” he adds, eyes on the floor.
“Who?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head once. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does. Obviously.
It matters to him.
Which means it matters to me.
But I don’t push.
From what I’ve seen, Boone pushes everything else.
The work, the ranch, the finances, people who try to lean on him too hard.
He’ll face down a storm or a broken fence without flinching.
But when it comes to his own hurt, his own history, his own kid…
he retreats into this controlled, tight-lipped shell that doesn’t leave much room for anyone else inside.
I get that more than I want to.
“You’re a good dad.”
His head snaps up as if I’ve just thrown something at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Raw agony flashes through his eyes. He looks… offended? Embarrassed? Wrecked?
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“That’s not what I—”
“I see you with her,” I cut in, softer. “You show up. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts. That matters, Boone.”
He watches me for a long, thick beat.
I turn back to the pan, because that look on his face feels too big in my chest. The oil’s shimmering again. I toss the potatoes in; they hit the heat with a satisfying hiss, filling the room with the smell of rosemary and comfort.
He steps closer, drawn by the sound, or the smell, or something else entirely.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Crispy smashed potatoes. Chicken’s almost done. Green salad. Lemon dressing—”
“Sadie’ll like that.”
My mouth tugs. “I hope so.”
“You’ve got a good track record with her so far.”
It’s said casually, but it lands somewhere warm.
“Even with muffins?” I tease.
“Especially with muffins.”
He’s closer again, his shoulder almost brushing mine as he watches the potatoes brown. I slide the spatula underneath, flipping them, then turn off the burner.
Every cell in my body is suddenly, excruciatingly aware of how near he is.
He smells of soap and sun and leather. Clean sweat and fresh air, which tangles with the scent of garlic and makes my brain fuzz at the edges.
I shouldn’t be this aware of him.
Of the way his arm flexes when he braces his palm on the counter. Of the vein down his forearm. Of the small nick on his knuckle.
Of the heat radiating off him and curling around my side.
I don’t know who moves first.
One second, I’m watching his eyes, the next my body is angled toward his, like there’s a magnet under my skin and he’s the only thing it recognizes.
“Delaney,” he rasps, my name husky at the edges, half warning, half… more.
My heart trips. “Yeah?”
His hand lifts.
It just hovers there. Hesitation made visible.
Then his fingers skim along my jaw.
Soft.
Careful.
Like he’s not sure I’ll let him.
Calluses catch on my skin in a way that makes goosebumps race down my neck. His palm cups my cheek fully, thumb resting near the corner of my mouth.
I lean into it. I don’t mean to. I just… do.
Hot terror and hunger flash through his eyes.
“This is a mistake.”
“Probably,” I whisper.