Me:I just cleaned horse shit out of my boots with a stick I found in the yard, so….
Miller:Jesus. Do I need to send moisturizer? Or a priest?
Me:Both, probably.
Miller: On it. Also-found some interesting shit in Tate’s paperwork. When can you meet?
Of course she did.
I type back quickly:Lunch break tomorrow?
A thumbs-up appears instantly, followed by another text.
Miller: You make out with Booney boy yet?
I scowl at my screen, sending her the middle finger emoji before shoving my phone back in my pocket.
“Something wrong?”
Boone’s voice is so close behind me that I jump, my beer sloshing straightdown the front of my shirt.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking down at the damp fabric clinging to my skin.
Boone lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he steps back inside. A second later, he’s back, a washcloth in his hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.”
I reach for it, but before I can grab it, he’s already pressing it against my shirt.
His palm is broad and steady, fingers spread wide over my stomach, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to touch me.
Like it hasn’t been over a decade since he did.
Heat rushes through me, the air between us shifting, something heavy settling in my ribs.
“I got it,” I say quickly, grabbing the washcloth from his grip.
He hesitates, just for a second, then steps back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry. Old habit.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “What is?”
His gaze holds mine. “Wanting to take care of you.”
My breath catches. For all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. It feels dangerous, like something I shouldn’t let myself hold on to. I drop my eyes, focusing on dabbing at my shirt, but I can feel him watching me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks after a beat.
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”
He reaches out, pressing his finger lightly between my brows. “You’re doing that thing.”
I swat his hand away, but I’m already smiling. Already laughing.
So is he.
I point a finger at him. “If you or Hudson point out the wrinkles between my eyebrows one more time, I swear to God, I’m gonna start pointing out your gray hairs or something.”
Boone barks out a laugh, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Joke’s on you, Westwood. I don’t have any.”
I hum, taking a sip of my beer. “That’s to be determined.”
