Chapter 10
BOONE
By midmorning, I’ve found five different excuses to walk past Roxie’s desk. First the printer, then the thermostat, and then I remember the supply closet needs reorganizing.
But the truth is, I just like watching her work. The way her brow furrows when she focuses, the small smile that appears when she figures something out. She types fast, efficiently executing one task before diving into the next without needing constant direction.
It gives me time to stare at her while I pretend to get my own work done. The whole time, the only thing I can think about is how unexpected yesterday was.
Dillon’s impulse sent the whole situation spinning.
For a few seconds afterward, I thought we’d scared her off.
She muttered some excuse about water, then bolted, and I was half-cocked, ready to go after her if I had to.
But then she came back to the office with her chin held high, calm as anything, and just kept working.
Like nothing happened.
If she wants to pretend that’s true, then fine. I can play along.
For now.
But I felt the undeniable electricity in the room yesterday.
And the ease with which she accepted each of our kisses.
As much as she might be surprised at first, I notice the way she presses her thighs together, her nipples forming little points under her shirt.
Pretending won’t last long with all of us under one roof. I’m sure of it.
When lunchtime rolls around, I finally stop staring, get up, and clear my throat. “Let’s go grab some food. Chance made sandwiches. It’s his version of multitasking, slapping some deli meat on a slice of bread while he’s on a conference call.”
Roxie looks up at me, blinking a few times as if I’ve caught her mid-thought.
A slight flush warms her cheeks, and I wonder what exactly she’s been thinking.
I don’t ask, though. The tension between us all has been pulled tight since those kisses, and if her mind has gone anywhere I think it might have, I’m better off not knowing if we’re going to keep up the pretense of professionalism.
A few moments later, she smiles and rolls her chair back. “That sounds great. All a good sandwich really needs is deli meat and maybe something fresh. I’ve never understood people who want to add all sorts of other stuff. The only acceptable addition is cheese.”
I chuckle. “Agreed. We’d better hurry, though. If Dillon gets down there first, there might not be any left by the time we get there.”
She stands up, walking around her desk and following me downstairs. Mercifully, we beat Dillon and Chance to the kitchen, but I can hear the rhythmic thump of fists on the punching bag in the gym below, so I assume Chance has decided to fit in a workout before lunch.
Dillon must’ve fallen into a virtual rabbit hole, but he’ll be down soon enough.
A tray of sandwiches sits on the center island in the kitchen, a jug of lemonade and some glasses beside it. Roxie glances at me as we walk in, one eyebrow arching. “Is that homemade?”
“The lemonade?” I guess, then shrug. “Yeah, it should be. Chance doesn’t do much cooking, but he takes hydration pretty seriously. That’s why the fridge is always stocked with cold water and the bar’s inventory looks better than what they’ve got at The Uncorked Cowboy.”
“I still can’t believe the place is actually called that,” she mutters as I hand her a plate. “This looks delicious.”
Roxie sits cross-legged on the couch in the living room after we dish up, her plate balanced on her knees.
She’s gorgeous, framed by golden sunlight shining through the glass walls, her feet bare.
The super-casual style we’ve adopted for work has already rubbed off on her.
Her hair is thrown up in a messy ponytail, and she wears barely any makeup on her face.
As I sit down on the other side of the couch, I balance my plate on the armrest, pick up a sandwich, and turn to face her while I eat.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this curious about a woman.
She isn’t the type to blurt out her entire life story over dinner, so I’ll have to put in the work to get her to lower that sky-high guard.
I’ve never been afraid of work. I prefer it, even. Earning something always feels better than just having it handed over. With that thought in mind, I lean forward, no phone or screen in sight. Right now, it’s only the two of us, and she has my full attention.
“You mentioned once that you’re working toward a degree in marketing,” I say lightly, not wanting it to sound like I’m prying. “What made you decide on that?”
She chews thoughtfully and swallows before answering. “I like stories. Not just the kind you read, but the kind companies tell through their branding and their ads. It’s just storytelling with a goal attached, but I love how doing it right can convey so much about corporate identity.”
“That’s a damn good way to put it,” I say.
She smiles, quick and bright. “Most people just assume it’s about selling things, but for me, it’s about connection. Figuring out what people need.”
I pause, wondering if she realizes she’s just revealed something real about herself. “Does that mean you like figuring people out?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, then to the window as she lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
“That’s a dangerous skill to have around here.”
“Why’s that?” she asks before taking another bite of her sandwich.
“Because if you start figuring us out, you might realize we’re not as mysterious as we pretend to be.”
Surprised laughter bursts from her. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
I watch her over the rim of my lemonade glass, content with having learned that one thing about her for now.
She seems so open about work, about the things she likes and voicing her opinion on everything from our organizational systems to sandwiches, but any time the conversation drifts toward anything personal, or her past in particular, she gracefully sidesteps the questions.
“What do you guys do for marketing?” she asks after she swallows, a furrow appearing between her brows. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask before.”
“You’ve had an eventful few days. No one could blame you for not thinking about it before. And besides, in our line of work, it’s more word-of-mouth anyway.”
She nods slowly. “That makes sense, but if there’s ever anything I can do, just let me know. It doesn’t have to be an Instagram campaign or anything to do with social media. I’m sure I can get creative with the right platforms, whatever they might be.”
“I’m sure you could.” Something tells me this girl is resourceful. “At this point, we’re barely keeping up with the clients we already have, but when it inevitably slows down, we’ll talk about it.”
Assuming you’re around for that long.
I still don’t know her story, but she comes with only a duffel and a backpack, and we’ve seen the meager amount of groceries back at the Morrison cabin. It doesn’t look like she’s here for long.
While we eat, we talk a little more about the company and her marketing studies, but once we’re done, our gazes hook and the air between us shifts. One second we’re talking about marketing trends, and the next, her eyes meet mine, steady and searching.
There’s something in that look that hits me square in the chest, like she’s trying to decide whether to run back to the office or stay where she is. I don’t move right away either, just watching her and giving her the space to change her mind.
But she doesn’t.
She stays completely still, her lips parting slightly, her breath catching.
That’s all the permission I need. The tension that’s been thrumming between us since yesterday snaps, electricity crackling in the air just like it did in that moment before she started muttering about getting a glass of water.
I lean in, slow enough for her to stop me if she wants to, but she doesn’t. Her gaze lowers to my mouth and darts back up to my eyes, then our lips meet in a soft, uncertain kiss that deepens before either of us can think better of it.
She tastes faintly of lemonade, sweet and entirely too addictive. As I sweep my tongue across hers, she makes a quiet sound against my mouth that hits me low and deep, and for a moment, I forget everything else.
Suddenly, I’m not thinking about being cautious or taking it slow. I don’t care about her past or the secrets she isn’t telling. All that exists is the heat between us and the way her fingers curl into my shirt.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs breaks us apart. Chance and Dillon come up from downstairs, both freezing mid-stride when I glance over just in time to see Dillon’s eyebrows shoot up.
Chance smirks like he saw this coming a mile away. Roxie’s face flushes instantly, and then she draws back, wiping her palms on her jeans like she’s been caught doing something far worse than kissing.
I clear my throat, trying to defuse the tension in the room as I look back at her. “I guess I should probably mention that we have a unique lifestyle, the guys and I.”
Roxie blinks, her brow furrowing, but I see curiosity flickering behind her eyes instead of judgment. “Unique how?”
The open, cautiously intrigued expression on her face makes my pulse trip and my cock swell. “Let’s just say we don’t do things the traditional way.”
Her gaze drifts between the three of us, her lips still pink from the kiss. For a second, no one says anything else, but the air feels like it’s crackling with energy, like this is the moment before lightning strikes.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice soft as one corner of her mouth quirks up. “I’ve never really been one for tradition anyway.”
And just like that, I know I’m in trouble, and I’m not the only one. Dillon doesn’t waste a second. The man has never been shy about what he wants, and right now, it’s written all over his face. He strides right up to the couch and leans in beside me, catching Roxie’s gaze.
“You’re okay with this?” he asks quietly. “With all of us?”
She barely hesitates before she nods. “If I’m being honest, it’s not much of a surprise. I figured you were into doing things differently.”
Dillon smiles and brushes a strand of hair from her face before he bends and kisses her. It starts gentle and exploratory, but when she melts into him, his hand finds her jaw, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin.
I can’t look away.
Watching her respond to him, the way her breath hitches and her hand grips the edge of the couch cushion, hits me right in the gut. There’s no jealousy and no hesitation between us. This is what makes us work, the unspoken trust and the ease of knowing when to push and when to pause.
I glance at Chance. He stands just off to the side, arms crossed, eyes trained on them. When he catches me looking, he gives a small nod, then moves closer, looking every inch the careful protector as he crouches beside her.
He takes one of her hands and nudges Dillon with the other, a silent signal that makes our friend groan before he lifts his mouth from hers. Running a hand through his sandy hair, he swallows hard, then takes a step back.
“You tell us to stop and we stop.” Chance looks into her eyes as soon as she turns to him, her cheeks flushed but her gaze steady. “Got it?”
She looks between us again, her green eyes meeting each of ours in turn and lingering for a moment before she turns back to him. “Got it.”
Her voice is a little breathless, but she sounds confident. Sure.
Chance smiles and brushes his thumb across her cheek before leaning in to kiss her too. It isn’t wild or rushed, but careful and intentional.
She relaxes under his touch without flinching, but when Dillon takes her hand, she wraps her fingers around his without breaking the kiss with Chance. Watching them together, I feel something settle deep in my chest.
Maybe we haven’t stumbled upon her by accident.
Maybe she was meant to find us.