Chapter 8LARK
LARK
Me: I have to share a horse with Boone. A HORSE. Do you think it’s too late for me to run and join a cult?
Miller: Not if you move fast. The good ones always have a sign-on bonus.
Me: What kind of bonus?
Miller: Mostly eternal damnation. Maybe a robe.
Me: I do love a good robe.
Miller: Finally, we’ve found your calling.
Of course the universe is screwing with me.
Because what else would you call this? Me. Boone. One saddle.
I can practically hear fate laughing in the distance as I glance over at him.
He’s got his arms crossed tight over his chest, muscles straining against the flannel like they’re two seconds from mutiny.
Jaw clenched. Eyes narrowed. Looking like he’d rather be dragged behind a horse than ride one with me.
Excellent.
I let out a slow breath and turn my attention to Springsteen, brushing my hand along the white patch between his eyes. “You’re not gonna make this harder than it already is, right?” I murmur, stroking his nose. “Be a gentleman for me. ”
He flicks an ear, snorts like he’s weighing his options, and I smile, scratching behind it. “I’ll owe you. Big time.”
And then I feel it—Boone’s eyes on me. That heavy kind of stare that sticks to your skin and makes everything too warm. I don’t look at him right away. I’m not sure I want to know what’s behind that stare.
Instead, I reach for the saddle horn, slide my boot into the stirrup, and swing myself up like I’ve done it a hundred times. Which I have. Just…never like this.
Once I’m settled, I reach up and pull the tie from my braid. It’s been pulling all damn day, giving me a headache, and I’m over it. My hair falls loose, a little wild, a little wind-tangled. Whatever. I can finally breathe again.
But that stare? Still there. Heavier now.
I look down at him, arching a brow. “Well? You coming or not?”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me like I’ve grown a second head. Or maybe like I’m something he forgot he used to want.
Then—just when I’m about to say screw it—he smirks, slow and cocky, and in one smooth motion, swings up behind me.
Shit.
I forgot how small this space is when you have to share.
His chest presses against my back, broad and warm, solid as hell. One of his thighs slots tight behind mine, and his arm brushes against my waist as he cages me in and takes the reins.
And just like that, I forget how to breathe.
The heat of him seeps into me, quiet and unrelenting. Like he’s not even trying but still somehow managing to unravel every nerve ending I’ve spent years stitching back together.
Stupid, stupid idea.
Terrible. Horrible. Bone-meltingly bad idea.
But I don’t move. Can’t. Because if I shift even an inch, I know I’ll lean back into him—and that might be the end of me.
Boone shifts behind me, adjusts his grip, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low—gritty enough to rough up my already frayed nerves .
“Comfortable?”
I should lie. Play it cool. Pretend this isn’t messing with my entire nervous system.
Instead, I say the truth, flat and honest. “Not even a little.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound dragging down my spine like a slow match strike. It’s low and deep and smug in that way only Boone Wilding can manage—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me just by breathing.
Then he gives Springsteen a gentle nudge, and we’re moving.
And suddenly, I’m aware of everything.
Of the way his muscular thighs are pressed tight around mine. Of the heat pouring off him and soaking through my shirt like it’s tissue paper. Of the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back—grounded, certain, like none of this affects him at all.
I wish I could say the same.
The sun is blazing overhead, hot enough to turn my skin sticky, but the breeze cuts through it, sweeping my hair across my face and giving me something—anything—to focus on that isn’t the man pressed against me like a damn brand.
I shift slightly, trying to create some space, but all it does is send me sliding an inch forward in the saddle—enough to make my balance waver. I mutter a curse under my breath, but before I can straighten myself, Boone’s hands are there.
One second I’m off-kilter, the next I’m grounded by those hands—big, calloused, and way too familiar.
He catches me like it’s nothing. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.
His fingers wrap around my waist, firm and sure, and everything else disappears.
Because those hands? I remember them.
I remember the way they used to skim across my bare skin in the dark, how they’d splay across my stomach like he owned it, like he’d built it with his bare hands and had the right to hold it.
I remember the weight of them on my hips, the rough scrape of calluses on my thigh, the soft drag of his thumb just under my ribs.
I know how gentle they can be. I know how rough. I know the places they’ve touched, the way they’ve held me, claimed me, learned me by heart.
I stare down at where they sit now—steady on my sides like they never left.
And then his voice is right at my ear, low enough that it barely cuts through the sound of the wind, but it hits anyway.
“You good?”
His breath fans across my neck, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair how fast my body remembers things my heart tried to forget.
I swallow hard, throat tight. He still smells like spearmint and cedar and saddle leather. Like the boy who ruined me and the man who could do it again without trying.
I don’t trust my voice not to crack. So I just nod.
Because I’m not good.
Not even close.
But if he keeps touching me like this, I might forget to care.
His hands leave me slow—too slow. Like he’s not ready to let go yet. Like part of him wants to stay exactly where he is.
And damn it, I want him to.
There. I said it.
Well, not out loud. God forbid.
But the second his palms drag away, the second that warmth disappears, I feel the absence like a snap of cold air. And I hate how fast I miss it.
I tuck the feeling away before it can grow legs. Bury it under sarcasm and the twenty-seven other defense mechanisms I’ve been honing since he left.
I fix my gaze on the trail ahead, lock it there like if I focus hard enough on the rhythm of Springsteen’s hooves or the sway of the saddle, I won’t notice the solid wall of Boone Wilding still pressed up behind me.
But I notice. Of course I notice.
Because how do you not notice the first man who ever wrecked you completely?
It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone this close. Physically, emotionally, sexually—take your pick. I’ve kept it that way for a reason.
Tourists are safe. They come, they go, they don’t know my middle name or the way I like my eggs. They don’t ask about my past or look at me like they remember the way I used to fall asleep with their hoodie on.
But this? This is dangerous.
Boone shifts behind me, and I feel it—every inch of it. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “You already know everything about me.”
“Twelve years is a hell of a long time, Westwood. Humor me.”
I think for a beat, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I read more now.”
He hums like that surprises him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Always liked it. But now…I love it. I could read all day if life let me.”
“What’s your genre?”
“Erotica.”
Boone barks out a laugh, full and rough, his chest shaking behind me. “Jesus Christ, Lark.”
“What?” I say, feigning innocence. “You asked.”
“I should’ve known. You’ve always had a thing for kinky shit, you perv.”
I snort. “And you used to hide Playboys under your mattress, so let’s not act brand new.”
He leans in, his breath skating across the shell of my ear. “First off—rude. Second, those were collector’s items. I kept them for the articles.”
I twist just enough to shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Right. For the articles .”
His grin is slow and wicked. “Some of us appreciate narrative depth, Westwood.”
I laugh, soft and unguarded. “You’d last maybe one chapter in one of my books before flipping to the good parts.”
He nudges my hip with his knee, easy and familiar. “And you don’t?”
I press my lips together, biting back the smile that threatens to give too much away.
God, I forgot what this was like—this banter, this pull, this slow, inevitable gravity between us.
And now that I remember? I’m not sure how the hell I’m supposed to forget it again.
Boone chuckles again, shaking his head. “Goddamn. Here I was thinking you’d say something predictable—mystery, historical fiction, but no. Lark Westwood reads porn now.”
“Excuse you, it’s called spicy romance .”
Boone smirks. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I shake my head, grinning. “For your information, I read everything. Thrillers, literary fiction, contemporary.” I sigh dreamily.
“But in an ideal world, I’d have a huge library in my house.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves, a big window where I could watch the snow or rain, and I wouldn’t have to leave it all day. ”
“That actually does sound nice.”
I turn back to him, raising a brow. “Maybe there is some depth to you after all, Wilding.”
His grin stretches wider, his dimples etching themselves into his cheeks. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
I turn slightly to glance back at him. “Your turn.”
He raises a brow. “My turn for what?”
“To tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Boone exhales a small laugh, like he has to think about it. Then he says, “Jack and I once spent an entire day trying to see if we could build a working grill out of an ammo can.”
I blink. “Jack?”
“My best friend from the military,” Boone says. “We met in training. He was the guy who could get you to do just about anything, no matter how stupid it was. The friend who made everything feel lighter.”
There’s something in the way he says it, something that makes me want to press for more. But before I can, he keeps going.