Her eyes narrow. “The part where you show up looking like a character fromYellowstone. I brought Louboutins, a pair of Jimmy Choos, and my Valentinos. Pick one.”
I roll my eyes at her, then reach for my boot again. “They’d get stuck in the floorboards, Miller.”
She exhales like I’m personally offending her fashion sense. “Fine. But at least wear this.” She digs into her bag and pulls out a bottle of perfume—sleek, minimal, expensive. She uncaps it and sprays it on my neck and wrists before I can protest, then mists a bit into my hair for good measure.
The scent hits me immediately—warm, floral, but with something deeper I can’t place. Something that lingers. “Damn. Whatever that is smells really good.”
“It better,” she says, slipping the bottle back into her bag. “It costs four hundred dollars.”
I turn to her, scandalized. “You havefour hundred dollarperfume?”
She shrugs. “It’s not a crime to like nice things. I’m the lawyer—I’dknow.”
Before I can respond, a knock echoes from the front door. I glance at my phone, my stomach dipping. “Shit. I lost track of time.”
Miller and I pause in front of the full-length mirror in my room, the two of us standing shoulder to shoulder like we’re inspecting a piece of art—or, more accurately, like she’s the artist and I’m the canvas. The light from the window is soft now, that late golden hue before dusk fully settles, catching on the ends of my curls and the worn stitching of my denim skirt. It should feel like too much, the bare legs, the tied top, the faint gleam of lip gloss, but it doesn’t. It feels like enough.
Miller’s eyes scan me from head to toe, and for once, she doesn’t say anything cutting or sarcastic. She just nods, her reflection steady beside mine. “You look really good, Lark. Like,reallyfucking good.”
I squeeze her hand, my voice quiet but certain. “Thank you.”
She gives my hand a quick return squeeze, then pulls away like the moment’s gone on too long, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “Go answer the door,” she says, already turning toward her bag. “You’re making me feel underdressed.”
I grab my purse from the hook by the door, slinging it over my shoulder as I head down the stairs. My fingers tap against the strap, my mind ticking through a mental checklist. Phone. Wallet. Gum. Deodorant. I have all the things. I think.
Halfway down, it hits me—this is my first date in years. Actual, legitimate date. The word alone makes my stomach knot up, like it’s something foreign. I’m used to pickup lines at grocery stores and being told I “don’t look like a mom.” Used to men who assume a single mother means desperate, or worse, an easy lay.
But this isn’t just any man. It’s Boone. Boone, who’s seen every inch of my body without a stitch of makeup on. Boone, who’s kissed me when I’ve had morning breath and who’s held my hand while I ugly-cried over a bad day. Boone, who is my son’s father.
I shouldn’t be nervous but still, my hands feel clammy and I swear my pulse is louder than the knock that just came again from the door. I squaremy shoulders, trying to shake it off, trying to remember that I’m not someone new walking into this. I’m me.
And that’s more than good enough.
Chapter 19
BOONE
I’m standing on Lark’s porch with a bunch of wildflowers in my hand, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
I picked them this afternoon out by the fence line behind the barn, right after putting Springsteen up for the night. No daisies this time, nothing fancy—just whatever caught my eye and made me think of her. Yellow, purple, some little white ones I don’t know the names of. Not exactly florist material. I probably should’ve just bought some from the damn store, but that doesn’t feel like her. This does.
I tug at the collar of my shirt—a dark gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, worn jeans that fit right, the good boots. The ones not caked in mud. Exactly what you wear to a dive bar on a Friday night in Montana. It’s not a tux, but it’s clean, and it doesn’t smell like the ranch. I figure that’s enough.
Still, I feel like I’m seventeen again, standing on her porch, heart beating too damn fast, palms a little sweaty. Which is ridiculous. It’s Lark. I’ve known her my whole life. I’ve seen her naked, in every sense of the word. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a dumbass teenager about to take his crush to the movies.
I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looks when she’s lost in thought, how her mouth moves when she’s trying not to smile. The soundshe makes when she’s wrapped around me, skin on skin, nails in my back. That one’s been haunting me all fucking week.
Her boots hit the hardwood on the other side of the door—slow, steady steps coming toward me. My grip tightens on the flowers, heart knocking against my ribs like it’s got no common sense.
The lock clicks, the door swings open, and my brain just—stops.
She’s standing there, backlit by the light inside, and for a second, I forget how to function. Her hair’s down, long and wavy, catching the light like it’s doing it on purpose. That denim skirt—short, dangerously short—hugs her hips, riding up just enough to make my thoughts start to spiral. My eyes drop to her legs—long, smooth, tanned. Then back up to the sleeveless denim top, tied just above her stomach, showing off a sliver of skin I want to put my hands on. My tongue on. She smells like something expensive—something I want on my skin and her breasts are pushed up just enough to make it hard to remember why I’m here and not dragging her back upstairs.
My mouth’s dry. Completely useless.
“You gonna come in for a sec?” she asks, leaning against the door frame, eyebrow raised. “Or were you planning on staying out here all night?”
I blink. Shit. I’ve been standing here, just staring at her like a goddamn idiot.
