Page 220 of Lost Then Found
I stare at Boone, heart thudding harder now, mouth dry. “He really said that?”
Boone nods, his eyes on mine. “Yeah. He’s not doing it out of the kindness of his heart, but he’s not coming after you either. He’s looking out for himself. And right now, helping you helps him.”
I lean back in the chair. The string lights above sway in the breeze, soft golden orbs blurring slightly as my mind races.
It must’ve taken a hell of a lot for Boone to walk into Vaughn’s house and have that conversation. Everyone in town knows the history—Lane and Vaughn couldn’t stand each other. It goes back further than that, rooted in old grudges, land disputes, god knows what else. The Wildings and the Harts have always been oil and water, and Boone doesn’t forget that kind of thing easily. He sure as hell doesn’t swallow his pride for just anyone.
But he did—for me.
The Bluebell, my Bluebell, could be open again.Soon.I could call my staff, tell them to dust off their aprons and come back in. Get my kitchen up and running again, my regulars back in their usual booths, the smell of coffee and bacon and fresh pies filling the place like it’s supposed to. I can call the suppliers I finally tracked down after a week of chasing leads and losing sleep. I can finally start making money again, stop living in this purgatory of waiting, of watching the bills stack up.
Boone shifts beside me. “What’re you thinking?”
I look over at him. I already know I’m gonna have to trust Vaughn Hart. Not exactly the dream scenario, but if there’s one thing I know about Vaughn, it’s that if this deal gets him closer to whatever he wants—and keeps me from losing everything—I know he’ll follow through. Not for me. For himself. And right now, that’s enough.
What other option do I have?
I nod slowly. “Let’s do it.”
Boone studies me for a beat, like he’s checking for any hesitation, anycrack that might suggest I’m saying it just to end the conversation.
“You sure?” His voice is low, steady, like he’s giving me one last out.
“I’m sure,” I say, and I mean it. “I want to be open again. I’ve got employees depending on me. If everything’s legal and clean, I want to move ahead.”
He nods, jaw ticking slightly as he leans down and sets his soda on the deck beside his boot. “Alright. I’ll give Vaughn a call later. Let him know we’re in.”
Then he pats his thigh and tilts his head, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Come here,girlfriend.”
A smile pulls at my lips before I can stop it. This man. Always touching me—absentmindedly, instinctively—like his hands don’t know how to be still when I’m near. A thumb brushing over my knuckles at the table. Fingers tracing circles on my thigh in the truck. His palm finding the small of my back when we walk, guiding me like it’s second nature.
It’s never about claiming. It’s about closeness. About presence.
It’s not about sex or lust. It’s about the way he reaches for me like I’m something worth holding onto. Like touching me is a reflex he never had to learn.
Like loving me lives in his hands.
And maybe that’s what gets me the most. Not the kisses or the heat or the late-night whispers, but the small, steady ways he says,you’re mine—without ever needing the words.
And the truth is? I love that about him.
That constant reach. That quiet tether. That soft reminder that no matter where we are—he’s still choosing me.
I set my soda down with a clink and arch a brow. “I’m sweaty as hell and probably smell like a barn. Or cow shit.”
Boone laughs, already reaching for me. “Just how I like you.”
His hands find my waist before I can protest again, his rough palms warm as they wrap around me and guide me into his lap. I tuck myself in sideways, knees hooked over the arm of the chair, one arm draped around his neck.
My fingers slip into his hair there, soft from sweat and early summer, and I twirl a strand absently, just wanting to touch him. He lets out a low, almost imperceptible exhale, his arms tightening around me. His forearms lock me in close, strong and grounding, his hands resting easily—one at my waist, the other sliding slowly over my thigh.
My fingers keep twirling the hair absentmindedly. “I hope our kids get curls like these.”
The second the words are out of my mouth, I freeze. Completely still.Oh my god.
What thehelldid I just say?
My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs I swear Boone can feel it. Did that really just come out of my mouth? Am Idumb?Am I having a stroke? Why would Isaythat? Do I even want more kids? That’s not something I’ve let myself think about in years. Hudson was it. I figured that was my one shot, my only shot. And I’ve been good with that, content even. But now…now it’s different.
