Chapter 21 #2
Vivi was old school. Even though she'd filled out Colter's dating profile online, she preferred to spread out a mess of paper and colored pens across the table like a commander planning a battle.
Charts, sticky notes, doodles in the margins, pros-and-cons lists, coffee rings marking the victories and failures of past clients.
It all lived in glorious analog chaos before she uploaded the carefully curated data into sterile online forms. She liked the feel of paper under her fingers, the ability to cross things out and reorganize, to make sense of the madness in a way a spreadsheet never could.
Boone leaned back slightly, watching her scribble furiously, shuffle papers, and stab a sticky note into the mess like she was planting a flag.
"You really do all this by hand?" he asked.
"Yeah, I like seeing it all laid out. It makes me feel in control."
"In control, huh? Does that apply to the bedroom?" He paused for a beat to study her, and she knew what he found—sex-dazed eyes.
“No comment.”
His eyes dropped to her lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
A zing bounced around in her chest. Stupid zing.
Vivi groaned softly, buried her face in her papers, and tried to hide the smile pulling at her lips. "First question. What are you looking for?"
"Someone who doesn't make everything a game."
Her fingers stilled on the paper. "That's direct."
"You said honesty wasn't lying."
"Touché." She cleared her throat. "Biggest flaw?"
"Work too much," he said, without hesitation. "Don't talk about what I want. Don't stop to think if anyone else wants the same thing."
Honesty lodged somewhere deep in her chest. He’d said it so simply like he'd already made peace with the idea that wanting things, needing things, wasn't something he had the luxury of.
And maybe that's what hit her most. Because she'd spent years doing the opposite: adapting to everyone else's expectations, hoping someone might finally see her and ask what she wanted.
Hearing him admit it out loud made her realize how lonely that kind of silence was and how familiar it felt.
Maybe this was why she couldn't look away, because for all their differences they were both starving for the same thing. Someone willing to listen. Someone willing to try.
"And what do you want now?" she asked.
His voice went low. "Peace."
Her heart sank a little, because that ruled her out. If he was peace, she was the spark that made it messy—the fire that left scorch marks in his calm. She could practically hear the metaphorical smoke alarms blaring.
Only she silenced them because this wasn't about her.
This moment was about Boone and his perfect match.
It was about finding someone calm and steady—someone who fit neatly into his meticulously, organized world.
That was most definitely not her. She was all noise and disarray and sticky notes—the kind of person who tripped over a chair while singing Taylor Swift on a kitchen table and still thought she could keep it together.
"Go on," she prompted.
"I want a home that doesn't feel empty when the lights go out."
Something in her went very still. It wasn't the kind of thing most men admitted—not out loud, not like that.
A home that didn't feel empty.
The words echoed in places she tried not to acknowledge because she wanted that too.
Not the picture-perfect house with the white-picket fence or the performance that came with that but the actual warmth of being known.
Of not having to carry the whole conversation just to fill the silence.
She wanted someone who would choose to stay when the lights went out.
"Favorite quality in a partner?"
His smile was the kind that started in one corner and ruined her composure entirely. "Someone who calls me on my bullshit."
"I'm sensing a theme."
"Yeah?" he said softly. "I'm sensing one too."
She looked up, and for a heartbeat the air between them went completely still. His gaze wasn't teasing anymore. It was open and careful. And it made her palms sweat.
Vivi tapped her pen against the notebook, pulling herself back. "Okay, serious question. Guilty pleasure TV show?"
Boone blinked at her like she'd just asked him to solve world hunger with a spatula. "The Bachelor."
Vivi nearly choked. "What?"
He shook his head, eyes briefly closed, like he couldn't quite believe the admission. "God, I didn't just say that out loud. Did I?"
"Oh, you did," she said, laughing hard enough that the corners of her eyes went wet. "Now I need to know why."
"Easy. Feelings aren't endlessly analyzed, they're acted on. Dates. Choices. Roses. I respect momentum."
"And?"
"And my mom used to make me watch it."
Of course. It wasn't about guilty pleasure or reality-TV drama. It was about a time when watching something silly with his mom had felt like enough. Boone didn't watch The Bachelor because of the roses. He watched it because it reminded him of being loved without having to earn it.
It was a small epiphany, but a sharp one: Boone didn’t cling to things because he was stuck—he held onto them because they mattered. Suddenly, Vivi wondered if that was what she’d been doing too. Mistaking loyalty and care for fear of moving on.
"I need the full last-season recap," she said. "Immediately."
He maintained careful composure, though the corner of his mouth gave him away. "Fine. But only if you promise not to judge me."
"No judgment. Not yet, anyway." Vivi leaned forward, pen poised, as he walked her through The Golden Bachelor—who won, who he'd rooted for, and why the runner-up deserved better.
When he finished, she nodded solemnly. "That was very brave of you."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "Next question."
"Go-to weekend hobby?"
He blinked like he was genuinely searching for the answer and looked almost sad when he found it. "It used to be fishing down by the river but lately I haven't had time for much of anything."
And if that didn't make her chest ache, she didn’t know what would.
She imagined him out there—hands calloused, sunburn creeping over his neck, every hour swallowed by the ranch and the weight of keeping his father's promise alive. No time for himself. No space to breathe. All so the land didn't fall apart on his watch.
Her heart twisted with a painful knot of admiration and guilt, because while she’d been stressing over spreadsheets and client bios, he’d been shouldering the world with quiet determination.
She wanted to reach across that space, brush back the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, and tell him someone noticed and cared that he existed beyond work and duty.
"That sucks," she said, because nothing else really fit.
His chuckle was low and tired. "It really does."
She opened her mouth to say more, but he shook his head—a quiet, gentle signal to move on. So she let it go.
"If you could instantly be amazing at any skill, what would it be?"
"Dancing." He said it without hesitation. "Ballroom dancing because I'd love to sweep someone off their feet."
An insistent heat pooled low in her stomach.
She imagined his strong, confident hands at her waist, his body temptingly close, his good parts lined up with her good parts, so close she could feel him pressing into her most intimate place, doing the kind of ballroom move that would make her head spin for all the wrong reasons.
She pressed her thighs together, but it didn’t stop the wetness from collecting there.
His lips curved and a wicked flash sparked in his eyes as he tracked exactly where her thoughts had just gone. It was like someone lit a match over dry grass with enough heat to scorch the earth.
"I'd pay to see that," she said, her voice coming out smokier than intended. "Bonus points if you spin me into a wall."
Oh God. Did I just say me?
“Boots, if there is a scenario that involves you and a wall, there will be a hell of a lot more going on than dancing.”