Page 19 of Merry Mended Hearts

“Oh, come on,” I grumbled to the blank page. “He would make the perfect hero in any story.”

And he would.

How any woman could be in the same room with him and not salivate over his right-hook smile and impactful gaze was beyond me. He had the art of glowering, of smoldering, of brooding and giving a mysterious edge to his very existence down pat.

I’d come to Harper’s Inn for book research—and wow, had I gotten it.

Boone was definitely book boyfriend material.

With that thought, I lowered the pen and crisscrossed my feet. He wasn’t just book boyfriend material. The truth was, I hadn’t felt what Boone made me feel in a long time.

That thought gave me pause. I held the pen without letting its tip touch the paper.

Even though all kinds of phrases pouring into my brain and begging to be put down, Boone wasn’t someone from my imagination. I didn’t make him up. And certainly didn’t make up the jackhammer-like heart palpitations he gave me.

I didn’t want to trivialize that by making it fictional.

No way. With a man like Boone Harper, I wanted him to be anything but make-believe.

Eventually, I fell asleep, but my brain didn’t get the hint that it needed to shut down. Because the whole night, I dreamed about Boone Harper.

He’d been such a contradiction. Flirtatious and charming one minute, then bordering on rudeness the next. Maybe he was married, and he thought I’d been coming onto him when I’d asked him about the radio.

Had I, though? I didn’t think so.

My dreams relayed different ways the scenario could have gone when we’d first met. My favorite one featured Boone being as completely struck by me as I was by him.

We were the only two in the room. He’d asked for my number and then planned a clandestine meeting place where he then swept me into his manly, muscular arms. Hearts throbbing, blood pulsing, he slammed his lips to mine and stole what was left of my breath…

I woke up feeling as frazzled as if I’d stuck a fork in an electric socket. It took me several moments of staring around his room before I realized where I was—and what reality was.

“It was just a dream,” I told myself, sliding my notebook away from me since apparently, I’d fallen asleep while I was still holding it. “Snap out of it.”

No such thing would happen with him.

Or would happen, like, ever.

Mom was constantly telling me that I lived too much in my own head. She set me up with guys who always fell short. No man in real life ever lived up to the standards set by romance novels.

Could I help it if I declined a date with Jack Craner because he didn’t open my door? Or what about the time I’d been with Milo Gustavo, and we’d come across the perfect opportunity for him to be the hero when we’d been out for a walk past the park and a little girl had fallen on her bike.

I waited for him to rush to the girl’s side. Help her up. Set her bike on its wheels again. Instead, he just stood there, staring, while I rushed forward and helped her up again.

Not that there was anything wrong with me helping her… It’s just that I wantedromance. I wanted a hero, a love story like the ones I read about. Like the ones I wrote.

I wanted a man who wasall man. One who went out of his way to help others. One who was the conqueror, all broad and confident, who could tackle any problem, fix a broken pipe with nothing more than a toothpick and some shaving cream, and save some birds who’d fallen out of the tree while he was at it.

And call me crazy, but I dreamed of someone who made me turn into goo with a single glance.

Kind of like Boone did.

I wasn’t sure any of the men I’d dated had ever rendered me the consistency of Play Dough every time he looked my way. I fanned myself just thinking about the sight of him heaving that big chest of his, glaring at my suitcase like it had done him an injustice, and staring at me like…

…like he wanted to throttle me for being in his space.

Yes, please. Throw me over your shoulder and tell me what a bad girl I’ve been all year.

“Seriously?” I chastised myself, tossing the notebook and its pencil onto the quilt and slumping against the pillow. “Where did that come from?”

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