I’m not fooling anyone. Especially not myself.
Because the only thing I want right now is to drag him back to this bed and make him break that shower promise a third time.
And maybe a fourth.
The cabin is small and kind of perfect in that lived-in, nothing-matches-but-somehow-it-works way. There’s one big room with creaky wood floors, a kitchen that blends into the living space, and a big leather couch that’s definitely seen better days but still looks like the most comfortable thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. A few mismatched chairs are scattered around like someone just kept collecting pieces that didn’t go together until—magically—they did.
It smells like cedar and soap. The good kind. The Boone kind.
There are framed photos on the walls—nothing fancy, just the ones you barely notice at first, and then suddenly can’t stop looking at. One of Boone in a high school baseball uniform, leaning against a bat like he owns the field. Same easy grin. Same stupidly good hair. Another of the Wildings all standing in front of the main house, the Montana sky wide and blinding behind them, everyone squinting like they forgot how the sun works. It’s technically meant for guests—he told me that earlier while we were both still out of breath, laughing about how I nearly took out a lamp with my elbow.
But it doesn’t feel like a guesthouse. It feels like someone thought about it. Like someone cared about where the light comes in in the morning or which blanket’s the softest.
Said it like he was doing me a favor. Stirring something now, half-distracted. Shirtless. Still damp from the shower. And I swear, I’m doing my best to work—laptop balanced on my knees, fingers poised over the keys—but there’s a six-foot-something distraction standing ten feet awayin grey sweatpants and a face that belongs on a billboard somewhere.
He keeps glancing over at me like he’s trying not to make it obvious that he’s looking. But he is.
I tell myself not to stare, to be normal for once in my life, but it’s hopeless. He’s glowing. Literal post-sex, post-shower, low-light glowing. There’s even a scar trailing from his shoulder down his bicep that I haven’t asked about yet, but probably will. Eventually. When I can form sentences again.
And, not to get off-topic, but Boone owns a laptop.
That alone is newsworthy.
This is a man who calls Instagram “that photo thing” and once tried to text a thumbs-up emoji by typing the word “thumbs-up.” I fully expected him to drag out a fossil of a computer with a clunky power cord and a CD tray. But no. It’s sleek. Silver. Modern. The keyboard still clicks like it’s fresh out of the box. And he had to ask me for the Wi-Fi password, which—thank God—was taped to the fridge on a little note card that said “Welcome!” in his mom’s handwriting.
The laptop’s warm against my thighs, the fan humming like it’s working harder than I am. Miller’s email is still open, the photos laid out in a neat little grid like we haven’t already dissected them six different ways. I click through them again anyway. Not because I need to, but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
Bluebell’s kitchen, spotless. Like, magazine spread spotless. Counters wiped down, floors clean enough to eat off of, food storage labeled within an inch of its life. The walk-in cooler looks like it belongs in a commercial for something unnecessarily expensive. Even the damn faucet’s gleaming.
I stop on the inspection sheet—clean pass, signature clear as day, date stamped in the corner. Not a single mark against us.
No violations. No gray area. Nothing but proof that we should be open.
I switch over to another email—this one I sent to myself, full of scanned maintenance records Alice had squirreled away like they were gold. Service logs. Permit renewals. A safety inspection from last fall that basically read like a love letter to Bluebell’s grease trap.
All of it spotless. All of it still not enough.
“Find anything new?” Boone calls from the kitchen.
I glance up. He’s stirring something that smells like garlic and onions and a little like heaven. Still shirtless. Because why wouldn’t he be shirtless while I’m having an existential crisis?
“Nothing that Miller doesn’t already have. Nothing Wendell hasn’t already tried to twist.”
Boone frowns. Turns back to whatever he’s making. “Thought the original inspection would be enough.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, dragging my thumb across the trackpad like maybe this time a miracle will appear in PDF format. “So did I. But Wendell filed for a review. Claimed the inspection was compromised.”
Boone sets the spoon down harder than necessary. The metal clinks against the pan like it’s offended. “Compromised?”
“Said we tampered with it,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Because that’s apparently what people with functioning kitchens and legally up-to-date permits do.”
He turns to face me fully now, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, the overhead light catching the line of his collarbone and making me want to forget what we’re talking about entirely. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Tell that to the health department.” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Now we’re stuck in some bureaucratic black hole while they review the appeal. They won’t let us open until the review board signs off, and that could take weeks. Months, even.”
“He’s dragging it out,” Boone says. “Trying to wear you down.”
“He’s trying to bury me in red tape,” I say, staring at the screen like it might offer a solution if I just look hard enough. “And if he stalls long enough, I might not be able to reopen at all.”
