Page 190 of Lost Then Found
And we walk straight into it—undone and unbothered.
She’s still wild around the edges—hair messy, lips kiss-bruised, that faint flush that hasn’t left her chest. I’ve got marks on my neck I didn’t walk in with, and people notice. They always do.
Someone elbows a friend. Another tips their chin in our direction. But we don’t stop.
She doesn’t let go of my hand.
Riley’s waiting at the bar, leaned back on a stool like he’s been keeping score. His drink’s half gone. His grin’s full tilt.
“You get lucky, Wilding?” he calls over the music, smug as hell.
I don’t answer right away.
I just let go of Lark’s hand, grab her by the hips, and lift her clean off the floor. She yelps, hands smacking at my back, laughing as I haulher over my shoulder.
“Boone! What thehell!”
The place erupts—clapping, shouting, drinks sloshing. And I turn just enough, grinning like the devil as I shout back over the noise.
“The luckiest.”
And fuck if it’s not the truth.
Riley lets out a low whistle, slow-clapping like I’ve just hit a walk-off home run. His drink sloshes, half-forgotten in his hand, as he grins wide enough to split his face.
“Goddamn right,” he hollers, laughing like he’s proud of me for something more than just the obvious.
Lark’s fists thump against my back, her voice muffled by the way she’s hanging. “You can’t justhaulpeople around like this. What is this, the damn Stone Age? Put me down, you psycho.”
She’s all bark and no bite.
I adjust her easily, sliding one arm under her thigh, her hip pressing warm against my shoulder. My palm skims the back of her leg, fingers curling around soft skin I’ve already memorized, and I keep walking—not a single ounce of shame in me.
Because this isn’t just some bar hookup. Not for me. She’s fire and grit and laughter in my arms, and she doesn’t even know how far I’ve already fallen for her.
So I hold her a little tighter and keep walking toward the door like I’m not planning to take her home and ruin her all over again.
Chapter 20
LARK
Boone made good on his word the second we walked through the door.
Twice.
Once on the kitchen counter, where I definitely knocked over a bowl of lemons, and again in the shower, where the water was too hot, and we were too impatient, and I nearly slipped trying to get my shorts off. Zero regrets. Especially when he pressed me against the tile and whispered things in my ear that should absolutely be illegal.
Now I’m starfished on his bed, limbs everywhere, hair still damp, wearing one of his worn-in T-shirts and a pair of boxers I stole from his drawer like a criminal. There’s a laptop open on my thighs, glowing way too bright for how little brainpower I’m giving it. I’m supposed to be working. Or checking my e-mail, I think. Or maybe pretending to. Honestly, I can’t even remember what I was doing before I started staring at him again.
He’s shirtless.
In sweatpants.
Cooking.
Damp curls falling over his forehead like a Calvin Klein ad, muscles flexing every time he flips something in the pan. He’s hovering over the stove like a man who takes dinner at 1 a.m. very seriously.
He keeps glancing over like he’s making sure I haven’t disappeared, and every time his eyes land on me, my whole body lights up like a firework. It’s too much. It’s not enough. I pretend to read something on my screen. Click randomly. Nod to myself like I’m deeply invested in something that isn’t the man currently cooking shirtless ten feet away from me.
