Page 61 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

He couldn't stop thinking about last night at the bar. The way her eyes had glinted with that fearless, devil-may-care spark, daring him to notice. And then her words—low and teasing, crawling under his skin: I'm setting a sex trap.

Lord help him.

His body hadn’t gotten the memo that she was off-limits. It remembered everything—her curves, the brush of her fingers, the way her mouth hovered just close enough to ruin a man. That slow sway of her hips and the heat in her eyes that was all trouble. He was still wired tight from it—half craving, half ready to fight it.

He didn't like wanting something he couldn't fully have. He'd made peace with a lot of things in his life, that wasn't one of them.

Then there had been the sting of her walking away—so sudden. There was no goodbye, no glance over her shoulder, she just slid off her barstool and walked out the front door, leaving him standing there at the pool table, his pulse still thrumming his dick still hard.

He’d wanted to call after her, to shove reason aside and drag her back into the mess she’d left behind, but some stubborn part of him stayed silent knowing she was always going to be a wild card. Yet, even in that frustration, the raw ache for her lingered, reminding him that he hadn’t wanted her to leave at all.

Then there was the other night, the questions she'd called a dating bio interview, but which had been something else entirely, and they both knew it. He'd told her things—real things that he didn't usually give away. Funny, vulnerable, embarrassing things he normally kept locked down tight. He hadn't seen her yet this morning, and the anticipation was doing something to his focus that he resented deeply.

The way she'd looked at him like she'd wanted to have him for dinner and dessert and start all over again? It hadn't just been carnal—it had been electric. A charge that threaded through the quiet space between them, a pull that made every look, every brush of her hand, feel like it could ignite something uncontrollable. And the worst part was he'd let her see it, he'd sat across that table and handed her ammunition and called it conversation.

It didn't matter that there was an expiration date on whatever this was. He wanted the time they had left. All of it. Every last day.

He shoved another plank into place. "Dammit," he muttered. "Why is she so—everything?"

Because she was.

Infuriatingly brilliant and maddeningly good at making him feel like a goddamn human being instead of just a ranch machine. And it was entirely her fault that even surrounded by dust, paint, and sawdust, he couldn’t focus on the damn bunkhouse for more than two seconds.

Setting down the hammer, Boone wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned against the wooden beam.

"Of course," he muttered. "Apparently I like doing things I didn't sign up for. By myself."

But that wasn't entirely true. He hadn't told his brothers about the working in the bunkhouse this morning, so they didn't know he needed help. Asking for help wasn't exactly his superpower—something Vivi had told him more than once, with that exasperated look that somehow made him feel both guilty and stubbornly proud. If he didn't get better at letting people in, he might lose the ranch.

He had a feeling the ranch wasn't the only thing at risk.

The creak of the bunkhouse door pulled him from his thoughts—and then she was there. Standing in the doorway like she’d just stepped off a perfectly lit sidewalk and taken a wrong turn into his dusty Montana world. She looked out of place and exactly where she was meant to be, all at the same time.

Holding a wicker basket, she wore skinny jeans tucked into ankle boots, a soft-fitted green top that hinted at curves and dipped just enough at the neckline to give him a view worth etching to memory. Her hair was tousled in that effortless, just-rolled-out-of-bed way that somehow managed to look anything but messy. She was stunning and so fucking bright it hurt sometimes to look at her.

Of course, his body betrayed him instantly. Demanding heat pooled low—a sharp reminder that she had him exactly where she wanted.

Just looking at the way she shifted her weight, the tiny spark in her eyes, the curve of her smile—she was a challenge he could no longer resist. She was a blazing wildfire, and he was already caught in her flame.

"You know, standing there like that should come with a warning label," he said.

"Oh? And what would the warning say?"

"Danger." He carefully closed the distance between them, watching her track every step. "May cause racing heart, weak knees, and uncontrollable thoughts."

Her smirk widened and she shifted the picnic basket to rest against her hip. "Sounds like you're describing yourself."

"Maybe." His eyes moved over her face, taking his time to memorize those plump fuck-me lips. "Or maybe I'm warning you what will happen when you stay in one place too long."

"If standing still is against the rules then what would happen if I moved?" she asked, a sultry hitch in her voice that did him in.

"Come here and find out,” he said, thinking about those red panties and wondering if she had them on. “Not a suggestion.”

She shook her head—but pushed off the doorframe as she did it, and he swore her smile was just to torture him.

"If I come over there we both know what'll happen," she said, voice playful.

"What's that?"