Chapter 37
Vivi and Jo slid into a booth at the Tipsy Cow, the clatter of shot glasses being snacked against the bar top and the low hum of conversation wrapping around them.
String lights cast a warm glow over the rustic wood, and the scent of spiced cider and fried appetizers made the space feel like a cocoon from the outside world.
"Are you happy you volunteered for the fair, or is it just another thing to stress over?” Jo leaned back and spun a straw between her fingers.
"I'm happy I've gotten to know the townspeople, but I don't know where I stand with anything else.
With Boone, with myself, with what comes next.
" Vivi sipped her drink, eyes drifting across the row of booths.
"I thought I had a handle on things. Turns out I'm just confused about where I'm supposed to be, you know?”
“I get it. You’re used to men controlling your life—and now there's him. And it's intense. Like an all-consuming, Callahan-man variety of intense."
Vivi let out a much needed breath. "I really like him, but some days it feels like he’s everywhere at once. I guess I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."
Jo reached across and squeezed her hand. "Then you need to figure that out, New York. But don't forget why you came here. You're supposed to be living for yourself. Not for a man. Not even a Callahan man."
“We’re keeping things casual. We haven’t put a label on it.”
“You’re wearing his fucking hat,” Jo said. “You might as well have a hickey on your forehead that reads, Property of Callahan Ranch. But by the look on you face, you already know that and wore it anyway.”
“You see the problem now?”
"Sorry, that was all the fucks I have left to give to this conversation. So enough about men, let’s talk about men.
Fuck, Marry, Kill—eyes only edition." She gestured at the bartender, who’d just walked by.
“You’ve got three dudes in your peripheral vision.
Rate ‘em for me—looks, sexual prowess, favorite position, willingness to get creative. I'll take notes."
Vivi choked on her drink. "Jo! That's completely objectifying them."
“Objectifying? Honey, this is science," Jo said, wagging a finger.
"Critical research. Man Bun Bartender—tall, green eyes, probably thinks dominating means choosing the restaurant.
Looks: eight. Sexual prowess: seven. Favorite position?
Missionary because he considers himself a romantic.
Inventiveness: five, maybe five and a half on a good night. "
Vivi was already laughing so hard she had to clutch the edge of the table. Jo pressed on, pointing out various patrons, rating them with surgical commentary until Vivi was laughing hard enough to make her eyes water.
"Last guy." Jo narrowed her eyes at a man sitting three seats over. “He’s got that bad-boy smirk going on and the confidence of someone who knew exactly the impression he’s making. He thinks he’s mysterious and it's working, unfortunately.
Looks: ten. Prowess: nine. Favorite position involves handcuffs and—" she dropped her voice to a stage whisper "—pink anal plugs. Willingness to be inventive? He is able to do around the world. One handed.”
“That’s very, umm, specific."
"I'm a scientist."
"Ladies," a smooth male voice said.
Vivi looked up and froze. Pink Anal Plugs himself was standing at the edge of their booth, two drinks in hand, a cocky glint to his eyes, easy smile on his face like he hadn't heard a word. Which he absolutely had.
"Jo," he said smoothly, setting one drink in front of each of them. "Thought I might run into you here.”
Jo's eyes narrowed with theatrical delight. "Is that coward speak for I was looking for a little doggie and thought I’d stop by your table?”
"Jo!” Vivi said, cringing from secondhand embarrassment.
He turned to Vivi with an unbothered grin. "Don't worry, that's just her love language. I'm Ethan."
"Vivi."
“Oh, I know." His smile warmed. "A pretty girl doesn't stay a secret for long in a town this size.” He took her hand and pressed a light, unhurried kiss to her knuckles.
The air changed before she could take her hand back, a storm broke across the bar and Boone appeared at her side like he'd walked through the wall, and the temperature in the immediate vicinity dropped about ten degrees.
His voice came out quiet, which was so much more alarming than loud would have been.
"Get your fucking hand off her,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, every inch the predator. “Or I’ll break it myself."
Ethan went very still. Drink halfway to his lips. "Hey, Boone. I was just—"
“You were just what?" Boone's eyes bored into him, and Vivi felt the same pulse of tension she’d felt when he’d first shown her that side of himself. The air around him seemed to thrum with warning.
Vivi jabbed a finger at him. “Boone! He’s just being neighborly.”
“He should know better.” Whatever was in his gaze made Ethan take a half-step back without seeming to decide to. "She's wearing my hat.”
Jo leaned in with undisguised glee. "Hickey meets forehead. Poetic, really."
Ethan's face had gone a complicated shade of red. "Sorry, Vivi. I was just messing around."
"You don't need to apologize," she said, and meant it.
"The hell he doesn't." Boone growled, stepping closer—not in front of her but beside her, his shoulder pressing warm and solid against hers. An unmoveable wall she hadn't asked for and couldn't quite bring herself to resent.
Vivi felt him everywhere. The heat of him, the coiled stillness, the absolute certainty radiating off every inch of him that this—she—was not something he was willing to negotiate on.
Ethan muttered something, retreated, and found somewhere else to be entirely.
Vivi exhaled slowly and wrapped both hands around her glass. She should tell him he was too much, too intense—and yet a small, undeniable thrill coursed through her. She should turn around and say exactly that, calmly and clearly, like the self-possessed woman she was trying to remember herself as.
Boone's gaze finally came back to her—dark and unhurried and completely unrepentant.
Too much? Or exactly enough?