Page 5 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

"When your father left, I felt the same way. Like my whole identity was wrapped up in being a wife and a mother. I spent so much time becoming the woman everyone else needed that I forgot how to be the woman I needed." Gloria paused. "I don't want that for you. Now, sleep on it. One night. Tomorrow you can make decisions with a clearer head and maybe a little less manure on your shoes."

Vivi glanced around the ranch again—her suitcase wheels caked with mud, her new boots already scuffed beyond saving. "Fine. One night. But if I wake up tomorrow and the rooster has formed a militia, I'm leaving."

2

Boone Callahan didn’t do skinny jeans, kale smoothies, and he sure as hell didn’t do one-night stands. Not anymore.

As a three-time All Around Rodeo Champion, he could last more than eight seconds on a bucking bronco, but he couldn't seem to make it past the eighth month with a woman. When it came to forming deep connections, his capacity was, well, questionable. He'd rather rein it in than wear it on his sleeve.

Since his ex took his ability to trust with her, Boone hadn't had even the slightest interest in entertaining a woman. He'd built that indifference carefully, the way you board up a window before a storm. It had served him just fine. Didn't mean he hadn't had a few wild dreams here and there. But this one was so vivid. He caught the faint scent of citrus, felt the warm curves beneath his hands, and heard the soft breath of deep sleep.

The star of this dream? The fiery hot mess from last night. She'd crawled under his skin the second she opened her mouth in that coffee shop, which pissed him off to high hell. She'd been on his mind from the word orgasm. Probably explained the dream. He wasn't ready to dig any deeper than that.

He snuggled closer to the heat, and the warm body snuggled right back—her heart-shaped ass pressing into him. Jesus, it felt good. Too good. The kind of good that made a man's carefully constructed walls feel like kindling.

He wasn't sure if it was a whiskey-induced mirage from tying on one too many with his brothers until well into the night, or an incredibly bad decision. Then he heard a small, distinctly feminine sound—and he was pretty damn sure it didn't come from him.

This wasn't a dream. It was as real as he was hard behind the zipper of his jeans. Which meant the night hadn't ended with a rodeo finish. He wasn't sure how he felt about that—which was itself a clear sign of the state of his mind since his ex had left.

A soft sigh came from beside him and his eyes flew open, but he couldn’t see through the web of blonde hair covering his face. He pushed it out of his way and—another moan, another nuzzle and this time his dick manned all the way up and, shit, he realized his right hand was cupping her tit like he owned it.

Part of him loved that he already felt the need to stake a claim—not in a selfish way, not yet—but in a way that screamed he didn’t want anyone else near her. The other part reminded him that while he might not be much of a gentleman, he sure abided by the rules of consent and there was no way this woman—and he was pretty sure he knew who this woman was—would consent to anything other than a swift knee to the nuts.

Slowly, and regretfully, he removed his hand and then slid out of bed, careful not to wake her, nearly cracking his head open on the nightstand as he went. He dropped to his knees and peeked over the mattress.

Someone shrieked—a female someone.

A pillow came flying at his head. Then her phone.

Boone ducked. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What the hell are you doing? This is my room!" the woman demanded, as if he were the one who'd pulled a breaking and entering.

"Think again, Boots. This is my room."

"Is that what you say to all the women?" she snapped, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

He should have looked away. But, damn, she was pretty. Fresh-faced, mussed hair, pillow creases on her cheek. A delicate pink nightshirt with a V at the front—not low enough to see anything, but low enough to give him an idea of what lay beneath.

He sent her the smirk which he knew irked her. "I don't need to sneak into rooms. I do just fine on my own."

"Says the man who smells like whiskey and bad decisions." She froze. "Did we⁠—?"

She peeked under the blankets and gave an audible exhale of relief.

"Does that mean you normally sleep in the buff?" he asked and her cheeks went an interesting shade of pink. "Please tell me you sleep in the buff."

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Normally I'd say yes, but I've got the headache from hell and no patience left for surprises. Especially the kind that wear perfume and sneak into men's beds."

"Again. This is my bed, my room, my house."

"You want to show me the deed with your family's name on it? Because I can show you mine."

Uncertainty flashed across her face. "No, but I'll show you my reservation number."

She felt around for her phone, which Boone collected from the floor and handed it over. She snatched it back and began to furiously swipe across the screen. When she found what she was looking for, she shoved the screen in his face.