Chapter 23LARK #5
A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it.
This man. Always touching me—absentmindedly, instinctively—like his hands don’t know how to be still when I’m near.
A thumb brushing over my knuckles at the table.
Fingers tracing circles on my thigh in the truck.
His palm finding the small of my back when we walk, guiding me like it’s second nature.
It’s never about claiming. It’s about closeness. About presence.
It’s not about sex or lust. It’s about the way he reaches for me like I’m something worth holding onto. Like touching me is a reflex he never had to learn.
Like loving me lives in his hands.
And maybe that’s what gets me the most. Not the kisses or the heat or the late-night whispers, but the small, steady ways he says, you’re mine —without ever needing the words.
And the truth is? I love that about him.
That constant reach. That quiet tether. That soft reminder that no matter where we are—he’s still choosing me.
I set my soda down with a clink and arch a brow. “I’m sweaty as hell and probably smell like a barn. Or cow shit.”
Boone laughs, already reaching for me. “Just how I like you.”
His hands find my waist before I can protest again, his rough palms warm as they wrap around me and guide me into his lap. I tuck myself in sideways, knees hooked over the arm of the chair, one arm draped around his neck .
My fingers slip into his hair there, soft from sweat and early summer, and I twirl a strand absently, just wanting to touch him.
He lets out a low, almost imperceptible exhale, his arms tightening around me.
His forearms lock me in close, strong and grounding, his hands resting easily—one at my waist, the other sliding slowly over my thigh.
My fingers keep twirling the hair absentmindedly. “I hope our kids get curls like these.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I freeze. Completely still. Oh my god.
What the hell did I just say?
My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs I swear Boone can feel it.
Did that really just come out of my mouth?
Am I dumb? Am I having a stroke? Why would I say that?
Do I even want more kids? That’s not something I’ve let myself think about in years.
Hudson was it. I figured that was my one shot, my only shot.
And I’ve been good with that, content even. But now…now it’s different.
Does Boone even want more kids? What if he doesn’t? What if I just said something huge and weird and insane and—
Boone shifts beneath me, pulling me out of my spiral. I look at him, half-panicked, but he’s staring at me with a grin so wide it practically cuts across his face. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, lips pulled into something that’s pure joy, not shock or horror or discomfort.
That’s…good?
Boone says under his breath, easy and soft. “I hope they look like you.”
The words are simple. Offhand, even. But they catch me off guard in the best way. “You…you want more kids?”
It comes out small. Unsteady.
His fingers trail from my thigh to my jaw, tilting my face toward his. His thumb brushes along the edge of it—careful, sure.
His eyes lock on mine. “If it’s with you? Then yeah. I do.”
And then he kisses me. His hand tangles in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll pull away, but I don’t. I lean into him because I can’t not. Because kissing him feels like all the past versions of me—the tired, guarded, not-quite- enough ones—are finally taking a breath and letting go.
By the time he pulls back, we’re both breathing like we forgot how. His forehead rests against mine.
“I want them to have your eyes,” he murmurs. “Always loved your eyes.”
His hand slides up, fingers playing with a strand of hair, tugging it the way he used to when we were kids—playful but gentle. Always gentle. “And your hair. Remember when it used to go all white-blonde in the summer?”
I let a laugh. “Yeah. I looked like a sun-bleached scarecrow.”
“A cute one,” he says, with a crooked grin that does things to me I don’t have the energy to fight off.
Then his fingers brush over the bridge of my nose, soft and light. “And these,” he says. “Your freckles. I hope they get those too.”
I tilt my head, one brow lifting. “Alright, how many kids are we talking here?”
Without missing a beat, he shrugs, straight-faced. “Twelve.”
A laugh bursts out of me, loud and sharp. “ Twelve? What are we, building a small army? I hope you’re ready for minivans and no sleep for the next two decades.”
Boone grins, unbothered. “Minivans are practical. Lots of cup holders.”
“Yeah, well, I hope you like stepping on Legos and listening to the same cartoon theme song until your brain leaks out of your ears.”
He tilts his head like he’s weighing it. “Could be worse. At least I’d have you. And twelve little yous.”
I snort. “Please. If we had twelve kids, there’d be zero me left. I’d be a shell of a woman, whispering nursery rhymes and surviving on string cheese.”
Boone smirks. “You’d still be hot, though.”
I shove his shoulder, grinning. “You’re psycho.”
He catches my hand before I can pull away, lacing his fingers through mine. “Yeah, but I’m yours.”
Boone leans in, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, mouth barely a breath from mine.
But before he can close the gap, the screen door slams open with a crack and Elvis barrels through like he’s been shot out of a cannon.
Forty pounds of wiry fur and unstoppable energy slam into us, paws on Boone’s chest, tail whipping like a helicopter blade, tongue already attacking any skin he can reach.
“ Dammit, Elvis—” Boone chokes out, twisting to avoid a tongue to the mouth. “Where the hell are you when the cows get loose?”
Elvis lets out a bark like he’s proud of himself, his tail wagging harder.
Boone squints at him. “You got a sixth sense for ruining things, huh?”
I scratch behind Elvis’s ears, his whole body wiggling with pride like he just saved us from a house fire instead of crashing what was about to be a perfectly good kiss.
“Stop being mean to him,” I say, grinning as Elvis pants against my cheek, his breath warm and gross but weirdly endearing. “He’s just a sweet, innocent puppy.”
Boone narrows his eyes at me. “Innocent?”
The back door swings open again, this time less dramatic, and Sage steps out onto the deck, grabbing the red collar around Elvis’s neck with one hand, her face flushed from the heat.
“Elvis, off ,” she says, tugging him gently back. He obeys, sort of, still trying to sneak in one last lick. “Sorry,” she adds, breath catching slightly as she looks at us, “we just got back from a hike. Thought it’d wear him out, but apparently it just made him more insane.”
She’s wearing black biker shorts and a cropped tank, hair pulled into a high pony that somehow still looks fresh—slick, not sweaty. Not a single flyaway out of place. No frizz. And there’s not a drop of sweat on her. She looks like she just hiked a mountain for fun.
She gives Elvis a flat look. “Next time, I’m leaving him at the trailhead.”
Sage scratches behind Elvis’s ears with one hand while tightening her grip on his collar with the other. “Anyway. Mom said dinner’s ready. Sent me out here to get ya’ll,” she adds, glancing between us, then tugging Elvis back inside like she’s escorting a criminal off the scene.
I push up from Boone’s lap, stretching my arms overhead until my back pops, muscles still stiff from the ride.
Boone stands too, but there’s a shift in his energy—quieter, more inward.
His hands drop to his sides, eyes fixed somewhere out past the deck, past the golden stretch of pasture that fades into tree line and hills.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, brushing the front of my jeans, watching his face.
He shakes his head, slow, then lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck.
“Nothing really. Just…my dad used to love sitting out here at the end of the day. Sometimes even late at night, just him and a beer and the crickets.” His voice trails, thoughtful, not heavy exactly, but it carries weight.
He nods toward the mountains, the wide-open land bathed in the last light of evening.
“Now I get it. I see why. It’s peaceful out here. ”
I step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “If you ever wanna talk about him…about any of it—I’ll listen.”
Boone looks at me for a long second, then leans down and kisses my temple, soft, a thank-you without the words. His hands slide up, cupping my face with that easy gentleness he saves just for me.
“I’m serious about the baby thing,” he says, searching my face. “Not twelve, maybe, but I meant it.”
I laugh, nose scrunching as I shake my head. “Thank god. That’s a relief.”
He grins but there’s a seriousness underneath it. “I want to do this right, Lark. All of it. I wanna marry you first.”
I blink, narrowing my eyes, studying him. “This better not be you proposing to me in your backyard while I’m sweaty and smell like cow.”
Boone laughs, deep and low, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Not yet. But soon.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my lips, slower this time, less heat, more promise. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting a long time.”
His smile widens. “I’ll try not to keep you waiting much longer.”
I stand on my tiptoes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I press my lips to his again, quick and sure, a final punctuation mark on everything we just said. “Good,” I whisper against his mouth.
Then I pull back and grab his hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Now come on. I want chili.”
Boone lets out a laugh, giving my hand a squeeze as he follows. “I value my life too much to stand between you and dinner.”
I grin. “As you should.”
The kitchen hits me like a warm hug. The air’s thick with the smell of Molly’s chili—rich and savory, with that kick of spice that hits the back of your throat just enough to make you reach for a glass of water, but not enough to stop you from going back for more.
Wren and Sage are at the counter, laughing about something, spoons clinking against bowls as they pile chili high, steam rising in little clouds.
Elvis is at their feet, eyes locked on their hands, tail wagging furiously.
He lets out out a high-pitched whine every time a piece of cornbread gets too close to the edge.
He’s pleading, practically trying to manifest a bite straight into his mouth.
Ridge and Hudson come thundering down the stairs, Hudson squealing with laughter as Ridge yanks him into a loose chokehold, noogies his head, and mutters something about teaching him “respect for his elders.” Hudson twists away, face red, gasping between giggles, but he’s loving every second of it.
Molly bursts in from the hallway, a basket of bread tucked against her hip, apron still tied over her jeans. “Baked this at Loretta’s earlier—don’t fill up before you grab a slice!” she calls, already heading toward the table like she’s been shot out of a cannon.
It’s craziness. It’s loud. It’s completely unorganized.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
This place has always felt like home, even when it wasn’t technically mine.
But I’ve been part of this family for as long as I can remember, and all of it—every path—traces back to one day at the Bluebell.
My dad, fresh out of options, a newly single father, walked into the diner looking for work.
Lane Wilding needed a ranch hand. That one conversation, over cheap coffee and a plate of eggs, led us here.
I think about Boone, about the way his hand feels wrapped around mine now, and at least I know that he wants a future with me. I don’t know what it looks like yet, where we’ll end up, what kind of house we’ll live in or how we’ll juggle it all. But I don’t worry about the details.
I just want to spend it with him.