There.I said it.
Well, not out loud. God forbid.
But the second his palms drag away, the second that warmth disappears, I feel the absence like a snap of cold air. And I hate how fast I miss it.
I tuck the feeling away before it can grow legs. Bury it under sarcasm and the twenty-seven other defense mechanisms I’ve been honing since he left.
I fix my gaze on the trail ahead, lock it there like if I focus hard enough on the rhythm of Springsteen’s hooves or the sway of the saddle, I won’t notice the solid wall of Boone Wilding still pressed up behind me.
But I notice. Of course I notice.
Because how do you not notice the first man who ever wrecked youcompletely?
It’s been a long time since I’ve let anyone this close. Physically, emotionally, sexually—take your pick. I’ve kept it that way for a reason.
Tourists are safe. They come, they go, they don’t know my middle name or the way I like my eggs. They don’t ask about my past or look at me like they remember the way I used to fall asleep with their hoodie on.
But this? This is dangerous.
Boone shifts behind me, and I feel it—every inch of it. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “You already know everything about me.”
“Twelve years is a hell of a long time, Westwood. Humor me.”
I think for a beat, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I read more now.”
He hums like that surprises him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Always liked it. But now…I love it. I could read all day if life let me.”
“What’s your genre?”
“Erotica.”
Boone barks out a laugh, full and rough, his chest shaking behind me. “Jesus Christ, Lark.”
“What?” I say, feigning innocence. “You asked.”
“I should’ve known. You’ve always had a thing for kinky shit, you perv.”
I snort. “And you used to hide Playboys under your mattress, so let’s not act brand new.”
He leans in, his breath skating across the shell of my ear. “First off—rude. Second, those were collector’s items. I kept them for the articles.”
I twist just enough to shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Right. For thearticles.”
His grin is slow and wicked. “Some of us appreciate narrative depth, Westwood.”
I laugh, soft and unguarded. “You’d last maybe one chapter in one of my books before flipping to the good parts.”
He nudges my hip with his knee, easy and familiar. “And you don’t?”
I press my lips together, biting back the smile that threatens to give toomuch away.
God, I forgot what this was like—this banter, this pull, this slow, inevitable gravity between us.
And now that I remember? I’m not sure how the hell I’m supposed to forget it again.
