I am the polar opposite of fine.
Because twelve years ago, Boone Wilding left this town, and he was never supposed to come back.
And he has no idea that he has a son.
Chapter 2
BOONE
Well, fuck.
I should’ve just settled for the burnt-ass coffee at the Sinclair gas station. Bitter as sin in one of those flimsy cups that breaks if you grip it too tight. Should’ve just paid with a crumpled bill that smells like horse sweat and diesel and kept my ass moving.
That would’ve been the smart thing. The easy thing.
And yet—here I am. Standing dead center in the one place I told myself I could handle, pulse kicking like it knows I’m full of shit, staring at the door Lark just walked out of like it’s gonna open again.
It won’t.
She saw me. Locked eyes with me. And then walked straight out.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just gone.
And hell, I can’t even blame her for it.
I drag a hand across my jaw and let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the tightness settling in my chest. Twelve years is a long damn time. Long enough to fool myself into thinking maybe this wouldn’t hit so hard. That I could show up and blend back into this town like I never left it.
Turns out, I don’t know shit.
I shift on my feet and glance around the diner, trying to act like I’m not bleeding under the surface. Like I didn’t just watch the girl I spent half ofmy life loving walk out of here as if I was nothing more than a ghost.
The Bluebell’s the same, but different.
The twinkly lights are still in the windows, glowing soft and warm even in the afternoon. The black-and-white checkered floor is worn. The smell of bacon grease and fresh coffee still hangs thick in the air.
But there are changes, too. The booths don’t swallow you whole anymore, the walls have been painted a softer shade of yellow. The coffee machine isn’t rattling like it’s got one foot in its damn grave.
Alice would’ve hated that. Would’ve said it lost its soul.
Alice.
I should’ve been here when she passed. Should’ve sat in this diner, paid my respects, listened to people tell stories about the woman who practically raised Lark, who made sure no one left this place hungry. The woman who used to feed Lark and me buttery grilled cheese sandwiches at midnight, who used to roll her eyes when I stole fries off Lark’s plate, who told me once, when I was seventeen,You better take care of that girl, Boone Wilding, or you’ll regret it.
I shift my weight, scan the room without thinking. Exits. Windows. Who’s watching. Who’s not. Years of training hardwired into my system.
Old habits.
“Boone Wilding.”
I turn toward the voice, trying to shake the past off my shoulders before it drags me straight to the floor.
George Calloway’s standing by the register, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, looking at me like I might disappear if he blinks. “Was starting to think you weren’t coming back,” he says, voice steady.
I nod once. “Took me a while.”
“Town’s quieter without you and your brother tearing it up.”
George Calloway is a local rancher, or at least he was before he got too old to be breaking colts and running cattle. Now, he mostly sticks to trading livestock and dealing in farm equipment, always with an ear to the ground on whatever’s happening in Summit Springs. He’s the man who knows everyone’s business without ever being the one to spread it. If you need agood horse, a reliable bull, or a fair deal on a used tractor, you go to George.
