Page 63 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

"You didn't have to do this," he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended.

She shrugged like it was nothing, though her eyes betrayed her pride. "I wanted to. You do so much for so many people and never ask for anything in return. I figured it was time someone did something for you."

"I do what needs to be done." He tried to laugh it off, but it came out quiet and uneven. He held her gaze a moment longer than was casual. "Is that the only reason you did this?"

Her face turned the prettiest shade of pink. "That's the only reason I'm going to give right now."

CHAPTER 25

Boone took a slow breath and tried to remember how to behave like a reasonable man.

She was just a woman, he reminded himself. He knew women. Knew the rules, knew the patterns, knew their language.

But then there was Vivi, who didn't fit any pattern. She didn't come with rules or safety rails and he felt that low, tightening pull in his chest—the one that told him he was already past the point of playing this smart.

He watched her set out their lunch—cheese, little finger sandwiches, peach pie, a charcuterie board—organizing everything like it was an Instagram post. Every time she bent over to stack the sandwiches she went ass-up, and he couldn't help himself. The view was magnificent and he was only human.

Then there were those painted-on jeans—practically copyrighted by her curves—so tight he should've been able to trace the outline of her panties like a roadmap. Except there wasn't a single damn line. Which left him with two equally deranged possibilities: A) she was wearing a G-string with less surface area than a shoelace, or B) she'd rolled out of bed and decided to go full commando in front of God and his rapidly deteriorating self-control.

Option A was a fantasy.

Option B was a prayer answered.

He needed to know. He needed both hands on her and a signed permission slip to keep going because the urge to slide his palms over the curve of her ass was hitting him like a moral crisis he had no intention of winning.

He finished casting the lines and stuck the poles in the dirt. "You ever stop to take a breath?"

She was still fussing with the setup like she was prepping for the governor's visit, instead of a dusty rancher. Smoothing the blanket, she nudged the basket a millimeter to the left, adjusting the forks like they were auditioning for a spread in a magazine.

She was nervous, he could tell. And he'd be lying if he said that didn't settle somewhere deep and stupidly satisfied in his chest.

He lowered himself onto the blanket—slowly stretching out, just to see if she'd look. She didn't but her nerves practically shimmered in the air between them.

Boone folded his arms behind his head. "Boots, you going to sit or are you planning to rearrange that corner into submission?"

"I'm just making sure everything's set."

"It's been set for five minutes," he said. "You're the only thing still moving."

She finally looked down at him—eyes sharp but soft, fragile in a way she probably hated. And it hit him—sudden and unwelcome and completely true—she wasn't trying to be perfect for the picnic. She was trying to be perfect because she didn't know how not to be.

That old familiar ache stirred in his chest. The one that wanted to take care of something he had no business touching.

He nodded toward the space beside him. "Come on. Blanket's not judging you."

He was.

Not in the way she feared—never that. He was judging the universe for handing him a woman who tightened every bolt inside him just by breathing. And maybe judging himself for how badly he wanted her to sit on his lap and kiss him.

"I just want today to be nice. I know how hard you've been working and part of that is my fault. The bunkhouse, remember?"

Boone wanted to brush it off the way he always did—redirected it to pretending her caring hadn't landed somewhere important. That was his default. People worrying about him usually felt like something to dodge before it got sticky.

But with Vivi, it hit different. Warm instead of heavy. Wanted instead of suffocating.

He felt this small, bright thing he didn't know what to do with settle under his ribs. She cared about him, and instead of raising the wall he always reached for, he let it lower.

"I work hard because that's who I am," he said roughly. "That's not on you."