I clear my throat and step inside, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click. Her place smells like vanilla and something sweeter—maybe that perfume she’s wearing, the one that hijacked every coherent thought I had the second I caught a whiff of it.
Before I can say anything, Miller barrels into view, arms loaded with what looks like half her wardrobe and a pair of heels dangling from her fingers. She stops when she sees me, eyes scanning me from boots to collar like she’s checking for flaws.
“Well, would you look at that,” she says, tilting her head, a slow grin pulling at her mouth. “Cowboyscanclean up nice.”
I glance at the mountain of clothes in her arms. “You moving in somewhere?”
She shrugs, unbothered. “Lark had a fashion emergency. Someone had to intervene. You’re welcome.”
“Appreciate your service.”
She shoots Lark a knowing look, then blows her a kiss. “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then she breezes past me, heels clicking, calling over her shoulder, “Which, for the record, isn’t much.”
The door swings shut again, and it’s just us.
Lark turns toward me, and I hold out the wildflowers. “These are for you.”
Her face softens, eyes lighting up as she takes them. “Boone, thank you. They’re so pretty.”
I step closer, dipping my head until my mouth brushes hers. “You’re so pretty.”
She gives me that smile, the one that gets me every damn time, and sets the flowers down on the coffee table. Before she can turn away, I slide my hands to her face and kiss her again—deeper this time, slower. Her lips part against mine, and I feel her laugh, soft and breathy, pressed right up against me.
God, I love that.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “We should probably go.”
I let out a low groan, peppering kisses along the edge of her jaw. “Do we have to?”
“Boone—” she starts, but I’ve already got my hand under the hem of that little top, fingers gliding up over bare skin.
“I can think of some other things we could do here instead,” I murmur against her neck.
She rolls her eyes, swats at my chest. “Down, boy.”
I let my hands drop, watching her cross the room to grab her purse.
That damn mini skirt? Criminal.
The curve of her ass in it? Even worse.
And those white cowgirl boots?
A personal fucking attack.
Jesus. I’m already hard and we haven’t even made it out the damn door.
I’ve got no idea how I’m supposed to survive the night without combusting or dragging her into the nearest dark corner.
Or both.
She tosses her purse strap over her shoulder, glancing at me as she tucks her phone inside. “How was Hudson?”
It takes me a second to catch up—my brain’s still face-down on the floor somewhere between the swing of her hips and that dangerously short skirt—but I manage to drag myself back to reality. Barely.
“He’s doing good,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck. “He and my mom startedTombstonewith Loretta.”
Lark freezes mid-step, turning slowly toward me. “Tombstone?”
