Page 110 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Jo's eyes softened briefly. "That's not weakness, Viv. That's care, and care is never the wrong instinct. He should be grateful someone loved him enough to try." She paused. "The mistake wasn't caring. The mistake was the method. There's a difference."

"I know I overstepped. I know that. But I can't be someone who does nothing when the people she loves are struggling. That's not who I am."

"Then own the mistake," Jo said. "And don't let it break you. Those are two different things."

"I'm not leaving," Vivi said, and the steadiness in her own voice surprised her. "I decided Bridlewood is where I want to be and I'm not letting a man take that from me. Not even this one."

Jo's face broke into something that on anyone else might have been called a grin. She smacked Vivi on the back with enough force to knock her back a few inches. "That's my girl." She nodded toward the bustling square. "Now get out there. Show him, and yourself, that you're not someone who folds."

Vivi took a breath that actually reached the bottom of her lungs.

Fine. She’d come this far. Time to go make one stubborn cowboy eat his words.

CHAPTER 43

Boone walked into the Summer Sunflower Spectacular with a heart that felt like it had been wrung out, hung up to dry, and then wrung out again—because apparently falling in love meant learning all the ways a man could come apart in public.

He shoved through the crowd, ignoring the kid who nearly took out his knees and the woman who almost smeared powdered sugar across his shirt. The whole damn square was packed, but Boone only cared about one thing.

The pie-booth, which he could see in the distance.

His heart dropped to his feet because there she was, talking to Annabelle.

She stayed.

Those two words beat around inside his skull. She hadn't gone back to New York. Hadn't packed up and disappeared while he was busy figuring out what a fucking idiot he'd been.

She was still there. And he wasn't wasting another damn second.

He picked up his pace.

He didn't know what he was going to say when he got to her. Didn't know if she'd listen. Hell, she might tell him to go fuck himself, and he'd probably deserve it. But he was going to beg if that’s what it took.

He’d just passed the face painting booth when a hand shot out in front of his chest.

Boone jerked to a stop, his boots scraping against the pavement.

Virgil stood there in all his smug, over-polished glory—wearing a pastel button-down so stiff and pristine it looked like it had been ironed by angels with superiority complexes. The man didn't sweat, didn't wrinkle, didn't so much as breathe without looking pleased with himself. Even in ninety-degree heat, his shirt remained crisp, starched, and smarmy, like he'd dressed specifically to remind everyone he was better than them.

Irritation flared hot in Boone's chest. "Not now."

"It can't wait," Virgil said, standing firm like a stone in the middle of the moving crowd.

Boone felt his fists clench, muscles coiling, ready to shove past him. "You have two seconds to remove yourself from my presence or I will knock you out of the fucking way. Your choice."

"I'm going to honor the original handshake deal," Virgil calmly said.

Boone blinked, the words hitting him so hard it felt like the ground shifted under his boots. For a full second he just stared, mouth slack, breath punched clean out of his lungs.

His mind scrambled, trying to grab hold of the sentence that made no earthly sense—Virgil Maddox, king of loopholes and fine print, honoring a handshake deal?

"You're what?" His voice was rough with disbelief.

“Honoring the original agreement.”

“Why now?"

Virgil's jaw tightened. "Because your girlfriend also sent the letter to my aunt."