Chapter 6BOONE #2
I snort, impressed but not surprised. “Of course she does.”
Miller was always the smartest person in any room, and she knew it. And as much as she used to drive me up the damn wall, there’s no one I’d rather have in Lark’s corner right now.
I close the folder and nod toward her. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know.”
She gives a small smile. “I will.”
I nudge her elbow. “I mean it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch like she’s fighting back a grin. “Yeah, yeah.”
That’s the thing about Lark—she’s never been good at asking for help. But then again, neither have I.
She clears her throat and shifts her weight like she’s not sure how to land the next thing. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
I glance over at her, one corner of my mouth tugging up. “Your food’s a hell of a lot better than I remember.”
She turns toward me, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “Just saying, there was a time your signature dish was instant mac and cheese. And somehow, it always came out crunchy.”
She lets out a dramatic gasp, grabs the dish towel off the counter, and whips it at my chest. “You’re such a liar.”
I catch it midair, smirking. “Hudson deserves to know his mom once cooked pasta so bad the dog wouldn’t eat it.”
“It was one box,” she argues, snatching the towel back. “And it wasn’t crunchy, it was…al dente.”
I bark out a laugh. “You cooked the water out of it.”
She mutters something under her breath while folding the towel, but there’s a flicker of a smile playing at her lips .
“And what about the time you made pancakes in a metal measuring cup and dropped it straight onto the burner?” I ask, grinning now.
She throws her hands up. “I thought it was one of those tiny skillets! Why did your family have industrial-sized measuring cups anyway?”
“Pretty sure my mom still talks about it,” I say. “You welded that thing to the stove top.”
She laughs under her breath, shaking her head like she doesn’t want to remember but can’t help it. “You’re lucky I didn’t burn your house down.”
I shrug. “Would’ve been worth it. Kept things interesting.”
She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“Face it,” I say, shaking my head. “Cooking wasn’t exactly your strong suit back then.”
She scoffs, turning back to the counter to avoid looking at me. “Well, lucky for you, I got better.”
I crowd in behind her, just a little. Close enough that her elbow brushes my chest when she reaches for a dish.
“I noticed,” I say, voice low.
She pauses—just for a second—and that one beat is everything. Her eyes flick to mine, and there’s heat there, whether she meant to show it or not.
I back off before I do something dumb, like press my hand to the small of her back just to see if she still leans into me like she used to.
That urge—I haven’t felt it in years. Not like this. Not clean. Not without all the static that usually comes with it.
That was stripped out of me a long time ago.
That need for touch. For comfort. You go long enough being trained to keep your hands to yourself, to stay sharp, stay alert—ready for anything and everyone—you forget what it’s like to want to touch someone just because you can.
Because you want to. Not out of instinct or reaction, not to check for a pulse or hold a wound closed, but just to feel them.
And now, here she is.
Five feet of stubbornness and sharp comebacks, standing in front of me like no time has passed.
And I’m losing a battle I didn’t even know I was fighting—because all I can think about is how her skin used to feel under my hands.
How she used to curl into me when I pulled her close.
How every part of her used to settle right against me, like her body knew mine better than I did.
My fingers twitch at my side.
I shouldn’t touch her.
But hell, I want to.
Instead, I nod toward the table. “Hudson said he wants to come out to the ranch.”
She leans against the edge of the counter now, mirroring me. “I figured he might. Kid’s obsessed with horses lately.”
“Think he just wants to drive my truck.”
That earns me a laugh, soft and easy. “That too.”
“You should come with him.”
Her brow lifts. “For the truck or the horses?”
“Maybe the horses. Ellie misses you.”
Her lips part slightly before settling into a small smile. “I miss her too,” she admits. “She’s got to be ancient by now.”
I shrug. “Still kicking harder than most. You should come see her. For old times’ sake.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a second. Before she can say anything, I add, “Mom invited you guys to dinner.”
Lark hesitates, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter. And then, quietly, almost like she’s afraid of the answer, she asks, “Do they hate me? Your mom and all them?”
The question knocks the air out of my lungs more than it should, that she would still care what my family thinks of her.
I shake my head quickly. “No. No, they could never hate you.” I pause, holding her gaze. “You’ll always be family to them.”
She exhales, but I can see the way she’s bracing herself.
“Wren might need to take a beat,” I admit with a shrug. “But she’ll come around. You know how she is. ”
Lark sighs, nodding like she saw that one coming from a mile away. Wren has always been loyal to a fault, and, unfortunately, stubborn as an ass. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
“Come. It’ll be good to show Hudson around.”
She’s quiet for a moment before finally nodding. “We’ll come.”
“If you don’t, Ellie might disown you.”
Lark lets out a soft laugh, narrowing her eyes playfully. “If you throw me in the lake again, I swear to God, Boone, I will superglue your truck doors shut. What was her name again? Lucy?”
“Good ol’ Lucille. And no promises, Westwood.” With a wink, I head for the door, feeling her eyes on me as I go.
I step off Lark’s porch and into the cold, inhaling deep, letting the crisp air burn through my lungs. The truck’s parked at the curb, but I take my time getting there, rolling my shoulders, flexing my hands, doing anything to keep myself from remembering how close I’d been to her just minutes ago.
I don’t think about how Lark’s lips looked when she smiled, the way they still tilt up just a little more on one side.
I don’t think about how her legs still go on for miles, how they used to wrap around me in the dark, pressing, pulling, keeping me there like she never wanted me to leave.
I don’t think about how soft her hair looked, how I know exactly what it feels like between my fingers—silky, thick, something a man could lose himself in if he wasn’t careful.
I don’t think about how she used to drag her teeth over my bottom lip just to drive me crazy.
Or how she used to sound when I had her beneath me, breathless, begging.
Stop .
I can’t afford to think this way.
I blow out a breath and yank open the driver’s side door, sliding in, gripping the wheel like it’ll keep me steady. Lark has made it clear she wants to keep the past where it belongs, and maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s the only way this works.
This isn’t about us, and it can’t be. It’s about Hudson. Getting to know him, showing up for him. Being a father in the way I should have been from the start.
That’s the only thing that matters now. I need to remember that, no matter how fucking good she looks.
I shake my head, forcing myself to turn the key and put Lucille in drive.