Page 60 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

"Baking?" Rea repeated, stepping inside. " "Darling. You look as though you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

Vivi threw her hands up, sending a cloud of powder into the air. "I have to make twelve pies! Twelve! And apparently using frozen crust and canned peaches is a capital offense!"

"So instead, you decided to sacrifice my kitchen to the pie gods in hopes they'd take mercy?"

"That was the plan," Vivi muttered.

Rea walked over, poked the crust with one finger, and recoiled like it bit her. “If you served this to the Bridlewood Regents, they'd exile you to the back pews for life."

Vivi groaned into her hands. "Lady Rea, please, I'm desperate. I don't know what I'm doing. The internet lied to me."

Rea's lips twitched, softening. "Of course it did, darling. That's what the internet does." She rolled up her sleeves like she was preparing for battle. "Step aside. If we're going to salvage this disaster, I need room to work—and you need to stop touching things before you hurt yourself or the fruit."

Vivi sagged against the counter. "I'm trying. I just…pie is hard."

"Pie is not hard," Rea corrected, plucking the rolling pin out of Vivi's hands. "Men are hard. Taxes are hard. Pie is basic survival." She dusted her hands over the counter. "I learned how to do this the minute I became a ranch wife."

"You bake?"

"Of course I bake. I may have French tips sharp enough to slice open an envelope, but I fed that man of mine better than any woman in the county. You want to keep a cowboy happy? You learn to speak fluent butter and sugar. Taking care of his belly is taking care of his heart. Every good woman knows that."

She continued effortlessly, tying on an apron that read, Marry Rich, Season Well.

"Now stand back and stop looking like you're watching your own funeral. If you want to impress those brassy Midwestern matriarchs, you need more than determination. You need strategy."

She shot Vivi a pointed look—one Vivi recognized as former gold-digger wisdom loading.

"Never let them see you panic. Ever." Rea scooped Vivi's ruined crust into the trash. "Smile pretty, speak with purpose, and pretend everything you do is exactly what you intended—even if the house is on fire and you're the one holding the matches." She reached for the peaches. "And when in doubt? Butter. Butter fixes everything."

"Even pie disasters?"

"Butter could fix the national debt. Now fetch me the sugar and try not to touch anything."

Vivi felt a flicker of hope that maybe she wouldn't die in a peach-pie avalanche after all.

"Now, tell me what’s on your mind," Rea said. "What's going on between you and Boone?"

Vivi laughed nervously, waving a hand like it was nothing. "Not much. Just ranch stuff."

Rea didn't even blink. "Oh, bollocks. I heard about your little sex trap from Dottie. And don't try to tell me it’s nonsense gossip."

Vivi's cheeks burned hotter than the oven. "I mean, I thought about it…I was going to but I chickened out."

Rea sighed, a deep, amused exhale that carried decades of sharp wisdom.

"Listen darling, you're a woman with womanly needs. And Boone? He's a catch, no question. So don't be shy, that man is sought after in this town and if you fancy him then you need to go for it. A woman's got to know what she wants and then take it. Life's too short to sit around pining. My nan taught me that the fastest way to a man's heart is straight through his senses, and his ego. Charm him, tease him, and never forget, you're worth the risk."

Rea's words wrapping around her like a warm blanket and Vivi felt a spark of courage light inside her. "But he's so complicated."

"Every good man is. But puzzles are meant to be solved." She pointed the rolling pin at her. "Remember, while you play the game, don't lose yourself. Keep your wit sharp, your confidence sharper, and never let him forget you're the prize."

CHAPTER 24

Boone kicked a loose plank across the dusty floor, hard enough to make it slam against the wall, and muttered words that would’ve made a sailor blush. The bunkhouse was a disaster, the kind of mess that looked like a tornado had married a hurricane and thrown a kegger. And somehow, somehow, he was the only person there to clean it up.

"Where the hell is everyone?" he growled to the empty rafters, hammer in hand, sweat rolling down his temple. The only answer was the echo of his own frustration—and the memory of her.

She'd been a spark in his head all day, the kind that made him forget what he was supposed to be angry about. That chaos-wrangling, stubborn, sticky-note tornado of a woman. She had no idea what she did to him. Or maybe she did, and that was the problem.