Page 93 of Lost Then Found
Oh. Right. Shit.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. “I forgot,” I admit. “Sorry. Habit.”
He laughs. “It’s okay.”
We both look out at the field, watching as Hudson lines up for a drill. He moves fast, quick on his feet, making the play look effortless.
Boone tilts his chin toward him. “He’s good.”
“He is,” I say, warmth swelling in my chest. I nudge him lightly. “Wonder where he gets it from.”
Boone laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, and I swear there’s a hint of pink in his ears.
I glance toward my car. “I should go.”
Before I can take a step, he reaches out, fingers brushing my elbow. “You sure everything’s okay?”
I sigh, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m good. It’s just diner stuff.”
Which is like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole, but here we are.
My mind scrolls through the never-ending to-do list that’s been running me into the ground.Find a new supplier before the Bluebell crashes and burns. Figure out if the grill is actually dying or if it just hates me personally. Find time to sleep. Or eat. Or breathe. Get my life together. Somehow.
It all makes my shoulders slump, exhaustion curling in my bones.
I need a run. A good, long run where I can press my feet into the earth, let my body move without thinking, let my brain quiet itself for once.
I used to run every single day, back before Hudson. Back when I had time. Back when I was training for cross-country meets, chasing personal records, getting lost in the rhythm of my steps, in the steady inhale-exhale of my breath.
I still try to squeeze in a run when I can, but those moments are rare now, stolen in between shifts at the diner and baseball practices and remembering to buy milk before we run out.
I glance over at Boone before I can second-guess myself. “Are you busy after practice? Or do you think you could spare an hour?”
His brows lift slightly. “I’m not busy. What’s up?”
I suddenly feel ridiculous for even asking. “I…I was just wondering if you could stay with Hudson for a bit at the house so I can go on a run.” I wave a hand, already rambling. “It’s just been a while since I’ve had the time, and I—”
“I’ll stay,” he says, cutting me off.
I blink. “What about the ranch?”
He shrugs. “I can delegate.”
“Are you sure?”
Boone laughs, his dimples popping as he shakes his head. “Lark. It’s an hour. I’m sure.”
Something in me unwinds just a little. “Thanks.” I exhale, then point a finger at him. “Make sure he does his homework.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me. You don’t think I can handle one twelve-year-old?”
I lift a brow. “He has to sit and read for twenty minutes, but he might need some help. He’s dyslexic.”
Boone nods, completely unbothered. “Me too.”
I frown. “You are?”
“Yeah.”
