Page 128 of Lost Then Found
I let out a slow, suffering exhale, because of course he’s doing this.
Of course Boone Wilding thinks he can just show up uninvited, bulldoze his way into my space, and act like he belongs in it. But I don’t have the energy to fight him on it tonight.
He strides into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. The audacity.
I watch as he swings the door open and starts rummaging through it. Pulls out eggs, a block of cheddar, a pack of bacon like he already has a plan.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making you dinner.” He sets everything on the counter and opens the pantry like he knows exactly where it is. He pulls out a loaf of sourdough, a potato, an onion.
I blink. “At nine o’clock at night?”
He shrugs, rolling his sleeves up, forearms flexing like it’s intentional. “Seems like a reasonable time.”
I scoff. “For who? Psychopaths?”
“Where are your pots and pans?”
“Are you serious?”
Boone just arches a brow like I’m the one being difficult.
“Never mind,” he says, turning toward my cabinets and yanking them open.
I throw my hands up. “Oh, sure. Just go through my stuff.”
“Thanks, I will. Now sit.”
I groan, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he’s right.
I press my forehead into my hands. “Hudson’s been sick all day, by the way. Just in case you were wondering how my day’s going.”
Boone stills for half a second before turning back to me. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll live. Fever, stomach stuff. You know how it is. Probably got it from someone at school.”
Boone nods, setting a skillet on the stove. “Poor kid. You need anything for him? Medicine? Ginger ale?”
I shake my head. “Already got it.”
He cracks an egg into a bowl and starts whisking like this is some domestic fantasy I signed up for. I should tell him to leave. Should peel myself off this chair, walk over there, and shove his stupidly massive, Greek-god-of-a-lumberjack ass straight out the door before he decides to hang a damn apron on the hook and move in.
Instead, I sit there watching him as he makes me dinner like this is a perfectly normal night in my perfectly normal life.
I sigh, crossing my arms tighter. “Alright, but seriously—whythe hell are you in my house, making me dinner, at almost nine p.m.?”
He flips the bacon in another pan and glances over his shoulder like we’re talking about the weather. “Who else is going to take care of you?”
I freeze. “What?”
“You’re always taking care of everything else,” he says, as if this is just a casual observation. “The Bluebell. Hudson. Everyone but yourself. Someone should take care of you.”
I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, because what the fuck else am I supposed to do with that? “Oh, and let me guess—you think that someone should be you?”
