Page 172 of Lost Then Found
“You can, and you will.” She plucks a dress from the pile, holding it up against me.
I roll my eyes, watching as she holds up another option, lips pursed in thought. “And what am I supposed to do with my hair?”
Miller drapes the dress over her arm like she’s about to deliver a final verdict and meets my gaze with a slow blink, unfazed. “Well. Maybe start with a hairbrush and go from there.”
A sharp breath escapes me—half laugh, half disbelief—and without thinking, I grab the nearest throw pillow from the couch and hurl it straight at her. It lands with a satisfying thud against her face, knocking the sunglasses off the top of her head. They clatter to thefloor as she gasps, hand flying to her heart like I’ve mortally wounded her.
“Those are Chanel, you bitch!” she shouts, voice caught between outrage and amusement.
Laughter spills out of me, full and unfiltered, my shoulders shaking. Miller’s grinning too, stooping to pick up her sunglasses, which thankfully didn’t snap in two. She’s still got that wild glint in her eyes, the same one she used to have when we’d sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor as teenagers, bottles of cheap nail polish scattered between us.
Back then, life felt infinite and electric, the world nothing more than a series of possibilities strung together like the glossy posters on my walls—Chad Michael Murray and Orlando Bloom grinning down at us from their crooked push-pin thrones, witnesses to our whispered secrets and endless summers.
It’s astonishing, really, how easily it all comes back with her—the way we fall into that rhythm like no time has passed. Like we’re still fourteen and convinced the height of sophistication was clear lip gloss and over-plucking our eyebrows into oblivion.
I bend down to gather a handful of clothes from the monstrous heap at our feet, folding them over my arm. “Come on. Let’s haul this disaster zone upstairs.”
Miller loops her bag over her shoulder, her voice light as she calls after me, “Just a heads up, I’ve got six more pairs of heels out in the car.”
At the top of the stairs, I pause and turn just enough to look back at her. She’s grinning like a kid who knows she’s pushing it, but I don’t even have it in me to be surprised anymore.
Her footsteps echo behind me, steady against the old wooden stairs that creak in all the familiar spots. The hallway smells faintly like the laundry detergent I’ve used for years, and I catch sight of one of Hudson’s socks kicked against the baseboard, half rolled up and abandoned. Always a trail, that kid.
Miller’s halfway into my closet by the time I walk through the door, already elbows-deep in hangers and muttering something about “unsalvageable cotton blends” under her breath. She moves fast—ruthlessand determined. A pair of jeans gets flung over her shoulder, landing somewhere on the floor, but she doesn’t even look back. It’s a little terrifying, honestly.
I drop the clothes from earlier onto my desk chair and collapse onto the bed. The mattress gives under me with a worn-in creak and I fall back, arms splayed, staring at the ceiling for a moment before my eyes drift to the nightstand.
The daisies are still there.
Three of them, in a mason jar that used to hold strawberry jam, now filled halfway with water and already turning a little cloudy. The yellow petals are curling at the edges, starting to sag under their own weight, but I can’t bring myself to throw them out.
This afternoon, Boone texted me, short, casual—Mom wants to plan a movie night with Hudson. You okay with him staying here tonight?
I wasn’t sure. Hudson’s never spent the night anywhere I wasn’t. For twelve years, it’s been him and me, a team of two with no room for error. I wasn’t ready to let that shift, not really, but I told him it was his choice. I didn’t want to be the reason he missed out.
Predictably, he lost his mind with excitement—started listing movies, snacks, what kind of pajamas he should bring. The whole nine yards. So I packed his bag, checked it twice, and drove him over.
I barely got the damn car door shut before I saw him.
Boone. Out in the pasture. On horseback. Inchaps.
Like full-on, real-deal, leather chaps that hugged his thighs and made my brain short-circuit on sight.
He was riding Springsteen like he was modeling for a cowboy calendar—hat low over his eyes, sun lighting up the dust around him like a movie scene, all raw muscle and easy control.
And I just stood there. Staring. Like a creep.
Because apparently, the universe had been saving this version of Boone for a moment when I was emotionally unprepared and extra horny. And yeah, I’d seen him dirty and sweaty before—this wasn’t new. But the chaps? The way he moved in them?
Thatwas new. That was a problem.
It felt rude, honestly. Like, how dare he? How dare the universe? Who allowed this?
I had no business being this affected, but my ovaries were already writing his name in cursive.
He saw me from across the fence line, swung down in one fluid move, and the next thing I knew, he was right there, boots crunching over the gravel, hands framing my face as he kissed me. Not soft. Not casual. It was like he’d been thinking about doing it all day. His palms were rough and warm against my skin, and I honestly might’ve blacked out a little.
“Since he’s staying,” Boone murmured when he pulled back, his lips still just barely brushing mine, “we should go out. Just us.”
