Page 167 of Lost Then Found
I kiss him again, savoring the warmth of his mouth, the way he kisses me like he means it.
“Boone?”
He hums, still kissing me, still lost in the way our bodies fit together, like he never wants to move. “Yeah?”
“Can you untie me now? My arms are kind of falling asleep.”
Boone jerks back, his eyes widening. “Oh, fuck.”
He pushes up instantly, his hands scrambling at the knot, untying it faster than I think I’ve ever seen him do anything. The second my wrists are free, they drop to my sides, tingling, the blood rushing back. I flex my fingers, rolling my shoulders, but Boone is already gripping my wrists, turning them over in his hands.
“Holy shit, Lark.” His voice is laced with something close to panic as his thumbs skim over the raw, reddened skin. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”
Heat floods my cheeks, my stomach flipping at the way he looks at me, like he’s guilty, like he’s already blaming himself for something I don’t regret at all.
“I’m fine.” I shake my head, flexing my fingers again. “I liked it.”
Boone doesn’t look convinced. His grip tightens just slightly, his brows drawn together. Then, slowly, he lifts my wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of it, his lips wet and warm and soft.
“I hurt you.” The words come out low, like he hates even saying them.
“No, you didn’t.” I reach for his face, cradling his jaw, my thumbs brushing against the scruff lining it. “It didn’t hurt. I promise.”
His eyes search mine, like he’s still not sure if he believes me. So I do the only thing I can—I kiss him. Fierce and unrestrained, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him moan into my mouth. The sound goes straight through me, a deliciousshiver settling low in my stomach.
“I don’t want that to be the last time we do that,” I murmur against his lips, my fingers still tangled in his hair, still pulling him closer.
His thumb traces a slow, lazy path along my hip. “Good. Because I was already planning on ruining you for anyone else.”
I laugh against his skin. “Already did, cowboy.”
Boone pulls back slightly, his brow furrowing like he just remembered something. “Wait.”
I watch as he reaches for his jeans, digging into his pocket before pulling out three small yellow daisies, slightly crumpled but still whole.
My heart stumbles.
“You didn’t,” I say, shaking my head, grinning.
His lips tug at the corner, all boyish pride. “I did.”
I take them gently from his fingers, running my thumb over the delicate petals, something warm and achingly familiar unfurling in my chest.
I remember a little boy, sunburned and wild, stuffing fistfuls of these same daisies into my hands every summer. I remember dirt-streaked cheeks and scraped knees and Boone, always Boone, picking flowers for me like it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, all these years later, here he is—grown, broader, rougher around the edges, but still him. Still finding flowers. Still giving them to me.
I swallow, looking up at him. “When did you even find these? I was with you the whole time.”
“When you weren’t paying attention.” He shrugs, stepping closer, plucking the daisies from my hands and tucking them gently behind my ear. His fingers linger in my hair, brushing my cheek, his touch as careful as it is sure.
I let out a quiet laugh, but my chest is tight, my heart doing something ridiculous inside me.
I study him for a second—really study him. The curve of his mouth. The quiet behind his eyes. The man in front of me and the boy I remember overlapping like two versions of the same truth.
“Why’d you do it?” I ask.
His brow pulls slightly. “Do what?”
“All those years,” I say, barely more than a breath. “Why’d you always pick flowers for me?”
