I scratch behind Elvis’s ears, his whole body wiggling with pride like he just saved us from a house fire instead of crashing what was about to be a perfectly good kiss. “Stop being mean to him,” I say, grinning as Elvis pants against my cheek, his breath warm and gross but weirdly endearing. “He’s just a sweet, innocent puppy.”
Boone narrows his eyes at me. “Innocent?”
The back door swings open again, this time less dramatic, and Sage steps out onto the deck, grabbing the red collar around Elvis’s neck with one hand, her face flushed from the heat.
“Elvis,off,” she says, tugging him gently back. He obeys, sort of, still trying to sneak in one last lick. “Sorry,” she adds, breath catching slightly as she looks at us, “we just got back from a hike. Thought it’d wear him out, but apparently it just made him more insane.”
She’s wearing black biker shorts and a cropped tank, hair pulled into a high pony that somehow still looks fresh—slick, not sweaty. Not a single flyaway out of place. No frizz. And there’s not a drop of sweat on her. She looks like she just hiked a mountain for fun.
She gives Elvis a flat look. “Next time, I’m leaving him at the trailhead.”
Sage scratches behind Elvis’s ears with one hand while tightening her grip on his collar with the other. “Anyway. Mom said dinner’s ready. Sent me out here to get ya’ll,” she adds, glancing between us, then tugging Elvis back inside like she’s escorting a criminal off the scene.
I push up from Boone’s lap, stretching my arms overhead untilmy back pops, muscles still stiff from the ride. Boone stands too, but there’s a shift in his energy—quieter, more inward. His hands drop to his sides, eyes fixed somewhere out past the deck, past the golden stretch of pasture that fades into tree line and hills.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, brushing the front of my jeans, watching his face.
He shakes his head, slow, then lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “Nothing really. Just…my dad used to love sitting out here at the end of the day. Sometimes even late at night, just him and a beer and the crickets.” His voice trails, thoughtful, not heavy exactly, but it carries weight. He nods toward the mountains, the wide-open land bathed in the last light of evening. “Now I get it. I see why. It’s peaceful out here.”
I step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “If you ever wanna talk about him…about any of it—I’ll listen.”
Boone looks at me for a long second, then leans down and kisses my temple, soft, a thank-you without the words. His hands slide up, cupping my face with that easy gentleness he saves just for me.
“I’m serious about the baby thing,” he says, searching my face. “Not twelve, maybe, but I meant it.”
I laugh, nose scrunching as I shake my head. “Thank god. That’s a relief.”
He grins but there’s a seriousness underneath it. “I want to do this right, Lark. All of it. I wanna marry you first.”
I blink, narrowing my eyes, studying him. “This better not be you proposing to me in your backyard while I’m sweaty and smell like cow.”
Boone laughs, deep and low, dimples cutting into his cheeks. “Not yet. But soon.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my lips, slower this time, less heat, more promise. I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting a long time.”
His smile widens. “I’ll try not to keep you waiting much longer.”
I stand on my tiptoes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as I press my lips to his again, quick and sure, a final punctuation mark oneverything we just said. “Good,” I whisper against his mouth.
Then I pull back and grab his hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Now come on. I want chili.”
Boone lets out a laugh, giving my hand a squeeze as he follows. “I value my life too much to stand between you and dinner.”
I grin. “As you should.”
The kitchen hits me like a warm hug. The air’s thick with the smell of Molly’s chili—rich and savory, with that kick of spice that hits the back of your throat just enough to make you reach for a glass of water, but not enough to stop you from going back for more.
Wren and Sage are at the counter, laughing about something, spoons clinking against bowls as they pile chili high, steam rising in little clouds. Elvis is at their feet, eyes locked on their hands, tail wagging furiously. He lets out out a high-pitched whine every time a piece of cornbread gets too close to the edge. He’s pleading, practically trying to manifest a bite straight into his mouth.
Ridge and Hudson come thundering down the stairs, Hudson squealing with laughter as Ridge yanks him into a loose chokehold, noogies his head, and mutters something about teaching him “respect for his elders.” Hudson twists away, face red, gasping between giggles, but he’s loving every second of it.
Molly bursts in from the hallway, a basket of bread tucked against her hip, apron still tied over her jeans. “Baked this at Loretta’s earlier—don’t fill up before you grab a slice!” she calls, already heading toward the table like she’s been shot out of a cannon.
It’s craziness. It’s loud. It’s completely unorganized.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
This place has always felt like home, even when it wasn’t technically mine. But I’ve been part of this family for as long as I can remember, and all of it—every path—traces back to one day at the Bluebell. My dad, fresh out of options, a newly single father, walked into the diner looking for work. Lane Wilding needed a ranch hand. That one conversation, over cheap coffee and a plate of eggs, ledus here.
