Page 97 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Now, fun? That was watching her heart-shaped ass sway from side to side as she hummed.

Boone pulled out a chair and sat, knowing she’d come down when she was good and ready. And why rush her when the view was so magnificent.

They’d fallen into an easy rhythm these past few days. They were up before the sun, taking care of the barn, he’d head off to handle the ranch work and she’d disappear into the bunkhouse. And the moment his watch blinked five o’clock, he was hauling ass back home just to get there—just to sit across from her while they talked about absolutely nothing and, somehow, everything.

They’d eaten at the dock yesterday. On the porch last night. Tonight, he wanted her to sit in this room she’d breathed life into. Wanted her to see what he saw every time she walked into the space.

Magic.

“I reheated last night’s chicken and made it into a couple of sandwiches,” he said. “Even brought a slice of your peach pie to share.”

That earned him a glance over the shoulder. “You keep eating my pie and I won’t have any left for the Summer Sunflower Spectacular.”

“Boots, I’d better be the only damn person eating your peach pie.”

She stepped down the rungs and hopped off the last one, stopped short, and her eyes landed on the pink box.

“What’s that?” she asked, trying for casual and failing.

Her face was fresh of makeup. The tiny top she wore hugged her breasts like a prayer. And then there were the cutoffs—those soft, worn-in, hip-hugging cutoffs—that put wicked thoughts in his head faster than a man should admit.

By the time his gaze made it down her legs, his body was already responding—tighter, hotter, more impatient. It was almost enough to make him forget his own self-control why he was holding out on telling her how he felt—why he kept telling himself they needed slow and steady.

But then she blinked at the bag again, curiosity outweighing the heat simmering between them.

“Seriously, Boone. What is that?”

“Got somethin’ for you,” he said, patting his lap.

Her whole face lit up like he’d just announced Christmas came early. She set down the paint roller and, bypassing the chair, slid onto his lap. The way their skin rolled over each other snapped him straight back to the way her legs had wrapped around his waist last night, and how her body had been hot and slick against his. And don’t get him started on those perfect handfuls in his palms.

And if he shoved the gift aside? Hell, he could lay her out on the table, peel off that tiny top, and worship every inch of her until she forgot her own name. But he wanted to see the look in her eyes when she saw what was in the bag.

“Go on and open it.” He nudged it toward her.

Vivi made a valiant effort at neatness—folding each piece of tissue paper like it was a fragile antique—before losing patience three sheets in and crumpling the rest into a ball. She peeked inside, and her eyes went wide before snapping to his. “Boots? You got me boots?”

Then she pulled out the most aggressively pink, sparkly, over-the-top cowgirl boots he’d ever seen. Rea might’ve fluffed the present up, but the gift was all him—and now he wondered if he’d crossed from sweet to stupid in record time.

“I don’t get it,” she asked. “Won’t these give me blisters?”

“Nope.” He took her knee and gently slid her brown boot off. “I know a guy who makes real cowboy boots, not the ones you find in the store, and I commissioned a pair of sparkly, pink, city-girl boots that are as much fashion as they are function. Put ‘em on.”

He helped her. One foot at a time. And he may have gotten sidetracked smoothing his palm down her thigh but, lord help him, those cutoffs were going to be the death of him.

She stood up and bent at the waist, looking down on them, giving him a fine view of how those cutoffs hugged her ass like they’d been tailored by angels. Boone waited until the torn denim slid up high enough to show the underside of her cheek and planted a loud, open-mouthed kiss on each one.

“Boone!” she squeaked, smacking her hands over her backside.

“Well?” he asked, a little nervous.

“I love them.”

“Next time you need to be a badass and walk a mile in someone’s boots, you can walk in yours and look glamorous while doing it.”

She hugged the damn bag to her chest as she stepped close enough that he could feel the heat rolling off her skin, smell her shampoo, and very nearly lose the last thread of self-control he had. Because all he wanted was to haul her onto his lap and go for another ride. But there was time for that. This time was about connecting. And damn it if this old country boy hadn’t come to love him some communication. The verbal and non-verbal kind. The first usually led to the second. But without the first, the second was never as good he was finding.

She pranced around the room and swayed her body like she was modeling a pair of Louis Vuitton instead of sparkly pink shitkickers.