LARK
LARK
“Lark,” Boone calls from the other room. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave soon.”
I glance at myself in the mirror one last time and tug the neckline of the dress up a little—not that it helps. It’s made to sit off the shoulder, and my boobs aren’t exactly doing the heavy lifting. Barely enough to keep the fabric in place.
The dress is lilac satin. Soft. Silky. The kind that feels expensive the second it touches your skin. Courtesy of Miller, obviously. She’d dropped it off and said, Wear it. Trust me.
So I am. Trusting her. Or trying to.
My hair’s parted down the middle, loose curls already starting to fall from the number of times I’ve run my fingers through them. Makeup’s minimal—just enough to pretend I slept last night. A little mascara, bronzer, something on my lips that looks like my own color but better.
The diamond studs in my ears catch the light when I turn. Simple. Understated. They used to be Alice’s. I haven’t worn them in a long time, but tonight, they felt like the right choice. Or maybe I just miss her.
My shoulders are still sunburned from Hudson’s tournament—three hours in the bleachers under the Montana sun with little shade and no regrets. The skin’s warm and pink, freckles blooming in places they always return to this time of year. I don’t bother covering them anymore.
I kneel to fasten my heels—silver, delicate straps, something that Miller calls effortlessly hot. She said they were perfect for a night when you want to look good without overthinking it.
Boone said he wanted to take me somewhere nice. Something real. A proper date, in a real restaurant in Bozeman, with a reservation and cloth napkins and a wine list we’d probably ignore. Something that said I see you, I want you, and I’m still trying.
And I think that’s why I put on the dress. Not for the dinner. Not for the heels.
For the trying.
Molly’s got Hudson for the night, and for once, there’s nothing to do at the diner, nothing pulling me in five different directions. Just dinner. Just Boone.
I glance at my reflection one last time, then square my shoulders and walk out of the bathroom.
Boone’s standing near the front door, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt when I step out. He hears the click of my heels and turns.
And stops.
Fully turns and just…freezes.
He’s wearing a navy suit—clean lines, perfectly tailored, like the fabric got lucky landing on him.
The white dress shirt underneath is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of collarbone and a sliver of chest I absolutely plan to put my mouth on later.
Lane’s old leather watch is still strapped to his wrist, scuffed and worn, a quiet reminder of where he came from—and the fact that no matter how good he cleans up, he’ll always be a little bit rugged underneath it.
His curls are pushed back off his forehead, tamed but not too tamed—still brushing the edge of his collar like they’ve got a mind of their own. His beard’s trimmed, jaw sharp enough to hurt someone if he looked at them the wrong way.
He’s hot. Criminally hot. Stupid hot.
And somehow— somehow —he’s mine .
My brain short-circuits for a second and my throat goes dry. Boone Wilding in a suit? Unfair. Flat-out indecent. I might black out.
His gaze drags over me, slow and stunned, like he doesn’t quite believe I’m real. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, then shuts again. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow.
“Oh my god,” I tease, crossing my arms with a grin. “Did I just render you speechless?”
He nods, still looking at me like he’s seeing daylight for the first time. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
My breath hitches.
He steps closer, eyes locked on mine. “Not just tonight. Always.”
My heart does this soft, stupid tap dance in my chest.
He lifts a hand and brushes his fingers down my bare arm, like he needs to be sure I’m really here, then cups my face and leans in.
The kiss is gentle, intentional—nothing hungry or rushed.
Just his mouth on mine, warm and sure, like he’s telling me a hundred things he doesn’t have the words for yet.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “You sure you still wanna go to dinner?”
I laugh, heart fluttering. “That depends. Does this restaurant do takeout?”
He grins, presses another kiss to the corner of my mouth. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go make people jealous.”
I grab my clutch, still smiling, and slip my hand into his.
The porch creaks under our steps as we walk outside, hand in hand.
The sun’s just starting to dip behind the mountains, bleeding streaks of peach and coral and lavender across the sky like someone dragged a wet paintbrush through a bunch of watercolors.
There’s a chill riding the breeze now that the light’s beginning to fade, but Boone’s hand is warm around mine.
He pauses at the edge of the steps, turning to face me with that same boyish glint in his eye I’ve seen a million times before. Usually right before he talks me into something I probably shouldn’t agree to .
“I’ve got one quick stop before dinner,” he says. “Something I wanna show you. I think you’ll like it.”
I squint at him. “Is it food?”
He grins. “Nope.”
“Is it wine?”
“Nope.”
“Then we’re getting close to the edge of my interests, cowboy.”
He just laughs, pulling a folded bandanna from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
My eyes narrow. “You better not be about to murder me.”
He smirks. “If I was, I wouldn’t be wearing my nice suit.”
“That’s exactly what a man trying to lull me into a false sense of security would say.”
He steps behind me, looping the bandanna gently around my eyes. “Just trust me.”
“Famous last words,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
He ties it carefully, fingers brushing my cheek. “Too tight?”
“No, but if I break an ankle because you made me hike blindfolded through the wilderness, I’m haunting your ass.”
His laugh rumbles against my back as he grabs both of my hands. “Noted.”
He guides me slowly, giving small instructions like, “step down here,” and “little to the left.” His hand stays firm at my lower back, thumb pressing little reassuring circles into my dress as he walks me toward the truck.
“You’re doing great,” he says.
“I better be getting a gold star for this,” I mutter.
He chuckles again. “Better. You’re getting me.”
“Debatable prize.”
That earns me a light swat on the hip before he opens the passenger door and helps me inside, his hands careful and patient like he’s done this a hundred times before.
“You comfy? ”
“As comfy as someone can be when they’ve been kidnapped by a man in cowboy boots and a fancy suit.”
He laughs, shutting the door.
I bite back my grin, pulse thrumming under my skin. Wherever we’re going, I have a feeling I’m not ready for it.
The drive is short—too short, which immediately has my nerves sparking. Boone hasn’t said a word since we left the main house, his hand just resting over mine, his thumb stroking slow arcs against my skin.
Then the truck slows and stops.
“What the hell?” I mutter, squirming under the blindfold. “Did we hit traffic on the ranch or something?”
He chuckles before his door opens. I hear his boots hit the gravel, then the soft slam of the driver’s side closing. A second later, my door swings open and he’s there, guiding me out like I’m not a walking hazard in heels.
“Careful,” he murmurs, hands wrapping around my waist. “You’re good. Step down.”
I do as he says, leaning into him. “If this is the world’s weirdest scavenger hunt or something, I’m gonna be really disappointed if there’s not chocolate at the end. Or wine. Really good wine.”
He laughs under his breath. “Trust me. You’re not gonna want chocolate. Maybe wine, though.”
He takes both of my hands again, guiding me gently. My heels clack against gravel for a few steps, then something else—wood, maybe?
There’s a shift in the air. I smell something—something fresh and green and floral.
“We’re almost there,” Boone says. His voice is soft now. Almost reverent.
A few more steps.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Unless this is some sort of sick homicide situation, I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
He lets out a laugh. “Jesus, woman.”
Then his hands are at the back of my head, carefully untying the bandanna. It loosens, falls away, and the second my eyes adjust, I forget how to breathe.
We’re inside…a house?
Not just any house.
A house that looks like something out of a dream I’d forgotten I had—arched windows letting in soft sunset light, wide plank floors the color of honey, covered in daisies.
It’s an open layout with exposed beams overhead and soft fixtures glowing against the walls.
The kitchen is massive, with a long island of creamy marble and deep cabinets.
The backsplash is tiled in something intricate and beautiful.
There are wide double doors that lead out to what looks like a covered porch.
The air smells like pinewood and fresh paint.
My heels echo softly as I turn in place, stunned silent.
I spin to face him. “What…where are we?”
Boone’s standing a few feet back, hands in his pockets, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’re in Old Faithful.”
I blink. Once. Twice. “No. We’re not.”
His smile grows. “Yeah. We are.”
I whip around again, looking at the open layout, the floors, the windows. The air feels warmer here. Lived-in, but untouched. It’s impossibly beautiful. Soft and clean and modern, but cozy too. Like it was designed by someone who knew exactly what I’d want, even before I could name it.
“This can’t be Old Faithful. That place was barely hanging on to life.”
He shrugs, walking toward me. “ Was . Now it’s not.”
My brain can’t keep up. It won’t stop spinning.
“You said you were using this for storage.”
He laughs. “Oops. Guess I’m not.”
“You built this?” I say, my throat tightening.
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His eyes soft, that smile still on his lips.
Oh my god.