The Rusty Mug smells exactly of salvation. Fresh coffee, cinnamon buns, and a hint of fried bacon clinging to the air vents because Laura still refuses to fix the kitchen fan.
We hunch into a booth near the window, frost feathering the outside glass. Buckhorn’s Main Street is quiet this time of morning, just a few trucks parked by the feed store, Christmas lights still dangling from the light poles. The town forgot it’s January.
Laura appears with two mugs before we even ask.
“Large, black, and strong enough to put hair on your teeth,” she says, sliding mine over.
“You’re an angel,” I tell her.
She snorts. “Flattery gets you nothing except maybe a refill.” She turns to Boone. “And you want your usual sugared-up nonsense Rose has got you addicted to?”
“Extra whip,” Boone says proudly.
Laura rolls her eyes and stomps back to the counter.
Once she’s gone, Boone leans back in the booth and folds his arms across his chest. He studies me with his “I’m about to start shit” expression.
“So,” he says slowly.
“So.”
I stare at him.
He stares harder.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“What?” Boone lifts his brows innocently. “I’m just sitting here. Enjoying my morning. Thinking about coffee. And Faith.”
I close my eyes. “Christ.”
“Oh, is that her name? I keep forgetting.”
“You’re hilarious.”
He sips his whipped cream monstrosity, watching me over the rim. “You gonna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Gonna pretend it didn’t happen?”
"Yes."
“Gonna pretend you didn’t look like a kicked puppy for two straight days since then?”
“I didn’t…”
Boone snorts so loudly that half the café turns to look.
I scowl at him.
He leans in. “Dallas. Come on. Something is eating you alive. Might as well spit it out.”
I grip my coffee as if it’s going to solve all my problems.
Truth is, I haven’t been sleeping. Or thinking straight. Or functioning as a sane human man since that night outside the barn.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel her hands on me again. Her mouth. The soft sound she made when I kissed the hollow of her throat.
