I toss a quick salad—because, despite his complaints, the kid actually eats his vegetables—and pull out a Coke from the fridge for him, setting it on the table.
Then the doorbell rings.
I freeze, looking down at myself. Jeans. A simple gray sweater. I tug at the hem, run a hand through my hair. It’s fine. It’s not like I need to look nice. Why should I care about looking nice for Boone? It’s not like we’re dating. We’re barely even friends again. At most, we’re…co-parents? Maybe?
I don’t have time to figure it out.
I walk to the door, take a deep breath and pull it open.
Boone stands there, broad and solid, all muscle shaped by years of ranch work and sharpened by the military. Roping, riding, hauling, fixing—every inch of him speaks to a life spent working with his hands and never backing down from anything hard. Dark jeans that hang low on his hips, a flannel stretched across his chest, the white T-shirt underneath pulling snug over the kind of muscles you don’t get in a gym but by living life hard, by working the land. His jacket is worn, the kind meant to cut the cold, but it does nothing to hide the strength underneath.
His hands are rough, capable—the hands of a man who knows how tomend fences, break horses, pull calves in the dead of winter. His jaw is dusted with freshly trimmed scruff, the kind that makes him look just enough like trouble. And when his eyes meet mine, sharp and unreadable, it’s damn near impossible not to remember every single way those hands used to feel on me.
He looks good.
A little too good.
Which is, in fact,notgood.
His mouth quirks up just slightly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, stepping aside and nudging Hudson’s duffel bag out of the way. “Come in.”
He steps inside, eyes sweeping over the space. The shoes kicked off by the door. The half-empty glass of water on the counter. The framed pictures on the bookshelf—Hudson at five years old, missing his front teeth; Hudson and Cade in their baseball uniforms, arms slung over each other’s shoulders; me and Hudson at the beach last summer, sun-drunk and smiling.
“It smells good,” Boone says, his voice easy but careful.
I pull the dish from the oven, setting it on the counter. “Chicken parm. Hudson’s favorite.”
He nods, taking it all in. “Nice place you’ve got.”
I glance at him, then back at the food in front of me. “Thanks. Want anything to drink?”
Boone leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “You got Diet Coke?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know I do.”
Of course I do.
Diet Coke has always been our thing. The thing we grabbed from the corner store on hot summer afternoons, condensation dripping down our wrists as we sat on the tailgate of his truck. The thing we snuck into the movie theater, stuffed in my purse next to a bag of Twizzlers we definitely didn’t buy at the concession stand. We’d pass one back and forth, parked under the stars after a long summer day. He always grabbed one for me without even asking, like it was second nature.
Guess some things never change.
I grab a can from the fridge and toss it to him. He catches it one-handed, a little surprised. “Nice arm, Westwood.”
I huff out a laugh. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
His lips twitch, but his eyes soften. He lowers his voice. “You talked to him?”
I nod, pressing my fingers against the countertop. “I did.”
“And?”
I exhale. “He seemed okay.”
Something releases in Boone’s posture. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the way his shoulders drop slightly, the way he exhales like he’s been holding something in without realizing it.
“That’s good,” he murmurs.
