I shrug my shoulders, trying to act like it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. "Why not?”
Chapter 5
Stacia
I'vesurvivedboardmeetingswith billionaires who threw tantrums like toddlers, fourteen-hour travel days that ended with me presenting to executives in five-thousand dollar suits, and a product recall that almost tanked an entire brand line and somehow became a marketing win.
But this?
Sitting barefoot on a stranger's couch in a borrowed flannel shirt while a summer storm rolls in outside?
This might be the most disorienting experience of my life.
Not because it's scary—though there's definitely an edge of the unknown that has my pulse running a little faster than normal.But because it feels...right. Like Boone’s not a stranger at all. Like I wassupposedto meet him.
And I don’t think it’s just because he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He doesn't talk much. He moves like someone who's learned to take up exactly the right amount of space—deliberate, quiet, never rushed. But everything about him isbig. His shoulders. His hands. The way his presence seems to fill the cabin without overwhelming it.
And hesavedmy life. Carried me out of the lake like I weighed nothing at all, bundled me up in his clothes, and made me coffee.
Thunder booms in the distance, still too far away to count the seconds but close enough to feel in the air. The cabin creaks as the wind pushes through the trees outside, a comfortable sound like an old ship settling at anchor. Even with the approaching storm, Boone’s house ispeaceful.
"This place is kind of amazing," I tell him, gesturing around the room with my coffee mug.
Boone turns slightly, one eyebrow raised in a question.
"I mean," I say, waving toward the eclectic collection of lake finds and handmade furniture, "it's a little like a fisherman's fever dream. But in a good way."
He huffs a small laugh, the sound rough and genuine. "Glad it meets your approval."
“Mind if I take a closer look at your collection?” I ask.
He shakes his head. So, I walk around the room, examining the bits of driftwood that are mounted to the wall and the shadowboxes filled with interesting rocks and items.
I pick up a piece of wood that’s been whittled into a bird. “Did you make this?”
“Yes,” he says, gesturing to a side table that holds more whittled pieces. “And those too.”
I pick up each figurine, examining them. Most are birds, but there’s also a canoe, a bear, and a bobcat. “They’re beautiful. You could sell them.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. It’s just something I do to pass the time.”
That silences me for a long moment. I can't remember the last time I did something just to pass the time. I always have a goal. A measurable outcome tied to quarterly performance reviews. Hell, I was even using this vacation to test out Trekora merchandise.
I pull my knees up on the couch and hug them, acutely aware of how the flannel shirt stretches across my chest, soft and worn and smelling faintly of cedar and something indefinably masculine. I shouldn't find that comforting, but I do.
He watches me for a beat too long before glancing away, and I catch something in his expression that makes my skin warm.
Unsure what else to say, I blurt, “I think I might hate my job.”
Boone's gaze slides back to me, steady and patient. He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't rush me or try to change the subject. Just waits patiently to hear what else I’m going to say.
"I've spent the last seven years climbing a corporate ladder that's propped up on a house of cards. Eighty-hour weeks. Constant pressure. Everyone pretending like gear margins and quarterly targets are life and death." I pause, the irony hitting me like a slap. "And then today, I nearly actuallydied.Now… suddenly, everything is different."
Something in his expression changes. There’s recognition there. Like he knows exactly what I mean.
"You almost never see it coming,” he says.
