Page 255 of Lost Then Found
He turns around and grins when he sees me, wide and proud.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, crossing the room with easy steps, reaching for me. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his palm warm against the sideof my neck. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”
I blink up at him, caught somewhere between laughter and tears. “What is all of this?”
He shrugs like it’s no big thing, like he didn’t just rearrange my entire insides. “You’ve had a shitty day. Figured if I couldn’t fix it, I could at least feed you.”
My eyes sting so suddenly I have to look away. I press a hand to my face and breathe deep, trying to collect myself, but it’s no use. The tears come anyway.
The thoughtfulness of this man—it never stops catching me off guard. It sneaks up and knocks the wind out of me in the gentlest way possible.
I wrap my arms around his middle and hold on.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
His arms wrap around me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other sliding up and down my spine like he’s trying to soothe something deeper than my skin. Every now and then, his thumb grazes my cheek, catching a tear before it can fall too far.
I breathe him in. Let the scent of soap and flour and Boone fill my lungs. Let the ache in my chest soften against the curve of his body.
What is there to say, anyway?
He’s right. Today fucking sucked. I had to fire someone who’s been in my life longer than most people ever stick around. Someone who once made me birthday cupcakes with too much frosting and cried with me at Alice’s funeral. Someone who let me down so deeply I can’t look at the walls of the diner without feeling it.
So I just hold him tighter.
He shifts a little, nudging his nose into my hair. “Hate to break this up,” he murmurs, “but if I burn Mom’s dumplings, she’ll skin me alive.”
I laugh, startled by the sound of it—small and real and a little watery. I let go reluctantly, wiping under my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I’d say that’s fair. She puts a disturbing amount of pride into those dumplings.”
Boone turns back to the stove, lifting the lid with a muttered curse.
“They’re fine,” I say, watching over his shoulder. “No scorch marks, noemergency.”
He gives the pot a skeptical look. “Mom said the dough’s supposed to be light enough to float but heavy enough to hold up a spoon. Which feels impossible. Like some kind of damn culinary riddle.”
“That’s why she doesn’t let anyone else make them,” I say, moving to his side. “It’s not just food—it’s a test of character.”
He lets out a laugh, reaching for the dish towel. “If I fail, I’m blaming her directions. She said, ‘Use your instincts.’ What the hell does that even mean?”
I lean into him, shoulder to shoulder. “Means you better pray to the dumpling gods and hope for the best.”
His hand slides to my lower back, a quick touch that lingers just long enough. “Thanks for coming home.”
“I always come home,” I say, softer now.
He doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at me with something in his eyes that makes it harder to breathe.
My gaze drifts back to the cinnamon crumb cake on the counter. The sugary topping’s just starting to crackle, still warm enough to make the whole kitchen smell like nostalgia.
I nod toward it. “When did Molly have time to make that?”
Boone lifts a brow. “She didn’t. I did.”
I turn my head, narrowing my eyes. “Since when do you know how to make cinnamon crumb cake?”
He shrugs again. “Since about nine last night when my mom walked me through it so I could make it for you.”
I blink. “You learned how to make that for me?”
