“I stopped pretending fear had to be the boss,” he says softly. “Because life’s too short to let it make your decisions for you.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, trying to breathe evenly.
He doesn’t stop.
“And Faith?” Boone shakes his head. “Man, she looked at you like you hung the damn moon. At the dance. At the ranch. Everywhere. She likes you. She probably always has.”
“She hasn’t called.”
“Neither have you.”
Boone points at me with his spoon. “You two stubborn idiots are sitting twenty miles apart, both convinced the other one regrets what happened. Meanwhile, the whole damn town is rooting for you.”
“I’m not…” I break off, because sayingI’m not readyfeels pathetic, and sayingI want her anywayfeels worse.
Boone sighs. “Look. I know you’re scared. Scared of losing Lila’s stability. Scared of losing yourself. Hell, scared of losing another woman you care about.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
“But Dallas,” he says, “sometimes good things come back around. Even if you don’t think you deserve them. Rose came back to me, remember? Not just when she had Wyatt. A couple of years ago. A long time after I never thought I’d see her again.”
I stare into my coffee until the surface stops rippling.
“And Belinda doesn’t stop being Lila’s mom just because you might love someone else,” Boone says. “You’re trying to protect that, too. I get it.”
He’s right.
I know he’s right.
I also know I’m not the same man I used to be. The one who loved Belinda fast and hard and without hesitation. That version of myself died the day she did.
And now?
There’s emotion growing inside me again. Warm and frightening andalive. Something with Faith’s green eyes and soft laughter and the way she said my name that night, as if she’d never stopped wanting to.
It terrifies me.
Because wanting her could crack me open again.
Because losing her again could finish the job.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Faith
January 9th
By the timethe knock comes, the whole house smells of cinnamon and clean laundry.
Mom’s been on a tear all morning. Vacuuming the hall runner, washing the windows even though it’s twenty-four degrees outside, and rearranging the knick-knacks on the bookshelf. She does this when she worries.
I bake when I’m the one spiraling.
So between the two of us, the house looks like it’s being prepped for real estate photos. If a realtor walked in right now, they’d immediately start talking about “natural light” and “great bones.”
I’m rolling out sugar cookie dough on the counter, flour dusted up my sleeves, when the knock sounds again. Sharp, urgent, too loud for this quiet little house.
My stomach drops straight through the floorboards.
