Page 130 of Lost Then Found
He trails a finger along the spines, scanning the titles. “Damn. This many books, and you still find time to be difficult?”
I narrow my eyes. “Careful, Wilding.”
His laughs before he pulls one out, inspecting the cover—a shirtless, chiseled man gazing seductively at a perfectly ripe peach.
Boone stares at it, his eyebrows slowly rising. Then he flips it over, like the back cover will somehow explain why this book even exists.
“Forbidden Fruit,” he reads aloud. Then shakes his head. “What thehellis this?”
I wink. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
His laugh is deep, real, unrestrained. “Lark, if this is what you’re into these days, I have some questions.”
I shrug, completely deadpan. “You should see the sequel.”
Boone shakes his head, still grinning, as he slides the book back into place. Then he glances over at me, more curious now. “Alright, smartass.What’s your favorite?”
“Lately, poetry.”
His brows lift, skeptical.
“I know, I know.” I wave a hand. “If you would’ve asked me in high school, I would’ve told you it sucked.”
He smirks. “Sounds about right.”
“But I don’t know,” I continue. “Something about it just…hits different now, I guess.”
Boone watches me for a second, then nods like he gets it, even if it’s not his thing. He pulls a few books off the shelf, flipping through the pages.
“Alright,” he says, holding one up. “So which one’s your favorite?”
I hesitate. There are a lot of good ones. But only a couple that I keep coming back to.
Pushing up from my seat, I cross the room and stand next to him. Close enough to feel the heat of him, but not enough to touch.
I scan the shelf, fingertips trailing over the spines, pausing when I find one of my favorites.
“This one,” I say, pulling it free.
Boone takes the book from my hands, flipping it over to read the title.
What the Living Doby Maria Giesbrecht.
He tilts his head, running a thumb over the worn edges. “This your copy, or did you steal this from the library?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s well-loved.”
He flips through a few pages, his brows knitting slightly. “Alright, I’ll bite. Why this one?”
I shift my weight, tucking my arms across my chest. “Because it’s real. It doesn’t try too hard. It’s messy and sad and beautiful and hopeful all at the same time. Feels like…life.”
Boone nods slowly, thumbing through a few more pages before shutting it. “I’ve never been much of a poetry guy.”
I smirk. “That’s because you’ve never had a good enough experience with it.”
His eyes flick to mine, full of challenge. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod toward the couch. “Sit.”
