Page 57 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Before Vivi could answer, her core went molten—because she felt him standing right behind her. Close enough that her body recognized him before her brain did. Boone walking in on her plan was not how she'd envisioned her evening going.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I think I just saw someone I detest walk in," Jo said, and Vivi looked over her shoulder right as Eli walked in.

Boone laughed. "Jo, you've lived here your whole life. I don't think there's anyone in town you don't detest."

“A customer is calling for me,” Dottie said waddling off to the end of the bar where an empty stool sat.

"I'm out," Jo sang, sliding off the stool—being the worst wingman in history—and effectively leaving Vivi to face Boone alone.

Almost able to hear him smile, she remained facing the bar, kicking herself for thinking she could pull this off and wishing he would take a hint and leave. She’d wanted to be the one to approach him, to control the night and influence the outcome. For this to work it had to happen on her terms.

But there he was.

She kept her eyes locked on her beer, tracking a single ribbon of foam as it slid down the bottle like even it was trying to escape this moment.

God, if only she could do the same. Drive home, pull the covers over her head, and die a quiet, socially acceptable death of mortification.

Hiding was her superpower.

It was easier to hitch herself to other people's dreams. You couldn't screw up your own life if you never actually stepped into it.

He slid onto the stool beside her and took her hand like he was picking up where they'd left off in a private conversation they somehow hadn't yet had. With a gentle tug, he angled her toward him until their knees brushed, their space shrinking to nothing.

"Hey, there."

She peeked up at him, cheeks flaming hot enough to add fifty-watts to the bar's lights. He wasn't smiling—he was studying her, brow knit like he was trying to get beneath what made her tick. Then he looked down her body and smiled like he wanted to get beneath her skirt.

"I was going to buy you a drink, but since somebody beat me to it,” he said with a lethal growl undercutting his words. “How about a dance then?"

His accent dipped lower, thicker, as if he wanted his hands on all of her. Her body hummed with anticipation.

His fingers wrapped around hers felt unfairly good.

"I figured your dance card would be full,” she said. “Wouldn't want your adoring public to riot."

He shrugged, eyes never leaving her mouth. "Only girl I'm interested in dancing with tonight is you."

Then his free hand lifted, slowly and so reverently she sighed, then he traced the neckline of her dress. From one shoulder, across the fragile sweep of her collarbone, to the other. His fingertips caught the edge of fabric and eased it down an inch, like he controlled gravity.

Her brain? Nothing but static.

"Why are you always wearing ridiculously impractical boots?" he asked with a grin.

"They aren't ridiculous! I will have you know that they're darling," she said stiffly, shoving at his chest.

He didn't move—didn't even pretend to give her space—just reclaimed her hand and held it there like he had every right to. The bar roared around them, people hollering, mugs slamming together hard enough to baptize the floor with beer. All Vivi could focus on was the frantic, steady thrum of Boone's heartbeat beneath her palm. It was loud and—Holy mary Mother of God—a little wild.

Every embarrassing and awful thing about tonight softened. Her shoulders loosened, her insides turned warm and gooey, like someone had swapped her bones for molasses.

Boone, meanwhile, looked like he was the one in trouble. Sweat at his temples, a tight flicker of nerves in his jaw. It gave her the courage to spill a truth she'd never said aloud.

“I wear heels because I’m barely five-one,” she blurted. “It’s hard to command respect when everyone’s got a height advantage. I don’t like being looked down at.”

The easy humor faded, replaced by something deep and focused. He moved close enough that she caught the scent of his soap, something woodsy and sinful that made her nipples salute like they'd he was a five-star general.

Stay still, she ordered herself. Do not:

Touch him.