I narrowed my eyes, trying to keep my pulse from jumping out of my chest. “You did this on purpose.”
His grin spread across his whole face. “Yeah, well…if I’m gonna manipulate you, I might as well make it worth your while.”
He was impossible, and he knew it.
Then, while we were finishing up lunch, Hudson had asked if Boone and I were dating. Just straight out with it, because that’s Hudson. No filter, no preamble, just a question he wants the answer to.
I didn’t know what to say. There’s no label for what we are, not yet, and I didn’t want to give him something shiny and definitive only to have it fall apart later. So I told him the truth—the messy, un-glamorous truth that Boone keeps telling me is okay to say out loud. “I’m not sure, bud. We’re figuring things out. Seeing where they go.”
Hudson had just grinned and shrugged. “I think it’d be pretty cool if you were.”
Simple as that. Like the idea of Boone being in our lives wasn’t complicated or terrifying. Justcool.
He’s already gotten so attached to his dad within these last couple of months, and I can’t blame him for it. Boone has this way of making people feel like they belong wherever he is. Like they’re safe there, likeheis the safe place. It’s one of the things I love most about him—and one of thescariest.
Because if this doesn’t work out, if Boone and I fall apart, Hudson’s the one who’ll feel it the most. And I don’t know if I can live with that kind of disappointment. Not his.
Miller snaps her fingers an inch from my face, jolting me out of the tailspin my brain was happily spiraling into. I blink, disoriented, daisy stems still blurred in my peripheral vision.
“Lark,” Miller says, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? Jesus Christ.”
She squints at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’ve had a stroke or an orgasm in real time.
“I’m over here elbow-deep in your closet trying to resurrect your fashion choices, and you’re zoning out like some shirtless ghost of Boone just whispered dirty things in your ear.”
I sit up, legs dangling over the side of the bed, and watch as she waves a hand at my closet like it’s something indecent. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” I ask, voice dry.
Miller stares into the abyss that is my wardrobe and sighs like she’s mourning a loss. “Your closet is hopeless. Like,Beyond Savingshould do an episode on it.”
“It’s a dive bar, not the fucking Met Gala, Miller.” I stretch my arms over my head, spine popping, and yawn.
She glances back at me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a hanger like she’s about to duel someone with it. “Lark. Babe. Dive bar or not, you’re about to see the man who makes you all lovey and weird just by existing. The least you can do is dress like you’re the hottest woman he’s ever laid eyes on.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re assuming I’m not already.”
Miller gives me a slow clap. “See,that’sthe energy we need. Now let’s channel it into something other than leggings and shirts with Edward Cullen’s face on them.”
“Hey!” I look down at my shirt—black, soft from a hundred washes, with Edward looking vaguely tortured across the front. “Ilikethis shirt.”
She nods solemnly. “I know you do. That’s what concerns me.”
She starts going through the closet again, her fingers skimming through hangers, muttering under her breath. Then she freezes and pulls something out with a triumphant,a-hasound, like she’s just unearthed treasure. “Oh my god! Denim on denim. Yes. You can have a full-on Britney moment.”
I narrow my eyes at the combo—tiny denim mini skirt, sleeveless denim top with buttons and a little tie at the waist. “You’re serious.”
“Dead.” She lays it out in front of me like an offering. “It’s hot. I’m talkingBoone is going to forget his own namehot.”
I stare at it. I haven’t worn either piece since…well,waybefore Hudson. Before I was packing diaper bags instead of flirting with random men at dive bars. Before I was a mom who thought about nap schedules and school forms and whether or not a twelve-year-old needs probiotics.
Miller seems to sense my hesitation. She points at the outfit, then points at me. “Put. It. On. Where’s your curling iron?”
“Bathroom drawer, left side.” I stand, already shimmying out of my shorts, stepping into the skirt with a deep breath. The denim is snug—like it remembers a younger version of me—but it slides over my hips without too much protest. I button the top, tying it at the waist, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
It’s a tight fit, no doubt, but Miller wasn’t wrong. The skirt hits just right, hugging my ass in a way that feels a little dangerous, and the top shows a sliver of my stomach, just enough to be interesting, while lifting my tiny boobs like they signed up for this. I tilt my head, taking myself in.
When Miller comes back in, holding my curling iron like it’s a sword, her eyes go wide. She stops in her tracks. “Oh,fuckyes! If Boone doesn’t propose tonight, it’s because he’s suffered some kind of brain injury.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but there’s a little buzz in my chest now—some mix of nerves and excitement. Maybe it’s the outfit. Maybe it’s Boone. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel like me again.
