Page 64 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Damn, it feels good that you care anyway.

"Now," he said. "Sit down and let's have one of these impractical little sandwiches."

"Impractical?"

"I can inhale the whole plate and still be hungry."

"That's why I brought homemade peach pie."

"Well." His eyes moved over her slowly. "I would do just about anything to get a taste of your peach."

Her eyes met his head-on. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

"I'm trying to get you to smile." He let the silence sit for exactly one beat. "It's working."

It earned him a laugh—real and unguarded—and the sound was like his new favorite song.

She rolled her eyes. "Will you stop with the flirting?"

He sat up and turned toward her until they were face to face. "When I'm flirting, you'll know. This is just me being charming."

She gave him a look like she was trying to read something written in a language she was still learning. So intent that Boone felt a bead of sweat prick at his temple.

"Have you ever thought about just being you?" she asked.

The question hit him square in the chest. Most people never got past the surface, never noticed the quiet weight he carried, the way his parents' deaths and the end of his rodeo career had left him hollowed out in ways he couldn't explain. A man who thrived on control and focus, now drifting in a riptide with no life vest.

"What you see is what you get," he said lowly.

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"You."

"Why?"

"If you have to ask that, again, I must be doing something wrong."

Vivi let out teasing laugh. "You think grunting something once is going to magically fix everything?" She leaned a fraction closer—just enough that he could feel the warmth of her without closing the space completely. "You're doing that thing you always do, Cowboy. Assuming everyone knows what you mean when really you're just vague as hell."

"I'm not vague."

"And I'm a rodeo champion in my spare time."

He looked down at the little sandwiches, the sparkling water, the neatly stacked plates, and shook his head. "You kidnapped me and dragged me to a picnic while I smell like sweat and sawdust. Could you have at least let me shower first?"

"Kidnapped is a bit dramatic. And this is about as close to a date as a colonoscopy."

"There's cheese and wine and cloth napkins. And you've been staring at my lips for the last ten minutes."

"A gentleman wouldn't point those things out."

"A gentleman also wouldn't point out that you're wearing the same panties I used to take care of myself with," he said—and she gasped. "You finally bent over far enough to make your jeans dip just low enough to confirm you like red as much as I do."

"Boone!"

"Do you deny it?"

"No," she said, flustered. "But you didn't have to say it out loud."