5. Sawyer
SAWYER
My foot slips out from under me, and my arms flail in the air. Fuck, I’m going to fall right in the mud. Why the hell did I get out of the truck?
Because you still love him, dummy .
Half a second before my ass collides with the slimy mud beneath me, I feel my body yanked upright. Boone’s strong arms pull me against his hard chest. He holds me tightly to him, as though he just saved me from falling over the side of a deadly cliff.
His intoxicating sandalwood and spice scent takes me back to a time when I was always in his arms. Dammit how I’ve missed this.
“Easy there, Sunshine. You wouldn’t want to get mud on those fancy city clothes.”
It’s his arrogant tone that makes it easy to abandon his warmth and shove myself away from him. “Fuck you, Boone.”
“Is that an invitation?”
My body reacts before my brain can catch up. My traitorous nipples are already puckered from the cold, but now they tingle with desperation to be touched—by him . But damn if I’m going to let him know how much I still want him.
“You wish,” I call over my shoulder, marching back to the truck.
“Admit it,” he says, catching me by the wrist. “You were worried about me.”
“Why do you even care?” I spit back, pushing rain from my face. My hair, my clothes, and my entire body are soaked completely through. And for what? Because I let my instincts take over when I saw Boone slip and fall, and ran after him before I could think better of it?
“You still care about me, don’t you?”
I shuffle backwards at the accusation that is all too true, until my back is flattened against the side of the truck.
If only my baby sister hadn’t gotten proposed to last night, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t have gotten drunk. I wouldn’t have called the man in my phone marked Uber Pain in my Ass thinking it was a real Uber. I wouldn’t be stranded on this ranch that was supposed to be ours .
“You still love me, don’t you?” Boone accuses, caging me in with his palms flat against the truck.
His heated gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips to my chest. My core tingles with desire I so desperately wish I didn’t feel for this man.
Five years ago, I would have begged him to fuck me against the side of his truck, rainstorm or not.
I summon the last of my willpower and anger, narrowing gaze at him. “You just want me to admit I made a mistake.”
“Because you did , Sunshine.”
“I—”
His lips crash to mine.
There’s no shock.
No urge to shove him away.
Only muscle memory as I sink into the urgency of his kiss. My hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue pushes at the seam of my mouth, demanding entry. I surrender, as I always have with Boone. I’m not just safe—I’m home .
My hands slide up the side of his neck as my body arches against his.
He grips my ass with both hands, and I let out a whimper.
I want him.
I need him.
I reach my hand between his legs, cupping his erection, and give it a squeeze.
Boone groans against my lips before pushing off the truck, separating us.
“See?” he says, his tone almost as smug as his fucking smirk. “You do still love me.”
“I fucking hate you,” I fire back, hating how exposed I feel. Was this all some cruel trick intended to get even with me for leaving him?
“No, you don’t.”
Fire burns in my veins, both from anger and the passion of that savage kiss. I hate that it makes me want to jump him. I march up to him, poking a finger at his chest. “As soon as this storm lets up, I’m fucking gone .”
“Why wait?” he shoots back, ice in his gaze now. “I’ll get you a life raft. You can float to the other side of the road and call in your fucking rescue. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your fancy city life.”
Anger is the only thing keeping me from a full-fledged breakdown.
Once upon a time, Boone was the person I confided in, even when my truths were ugly.
How many nights had my finger hovered over his name on my phone screen because I wanted to call him and tell him that my fancy city life fucking sucked?
How many times had I yearned to tell him I wanted to come home?
“I hate you,” I said again, as though proclaiming it a second time would make it more true.
“Fuck, get in the truck.”
“What? Why would I?—”
“Sawyer, get in the damn truck.” His entire demeanor changes, from smug to concerned. I follow the path of his gaze, catching something black in the distance. A cow? But why is she all alone in a storm? Where are the other cows?
“Is she stuck?”
“Maybe. We have to check on her.” He yanks open the passenger door and practically tosses me. As though I weigh nothing. Damn this man. Damn this storm for stranding us together. As much as I want to hate him, I don’t think I can.
Fuck, I’m in trouble.
Big trouble.