But it also… thrills me.
The mirror is cruel this evening. Or maybe it’s just honest.
I stand in front of it, tugging at the hem of my dress for the fifth time in as many minutes, and my reflection just looks… uncertain. The dress itself isn’t anything dramatic—simple, soft cotton, a muted teal that brushes my knees—but it feels more daring than anything I’ve worn in years.
I’ve painted in ripped overalls and stretched-out shirts until the fabric smelled permanently of turpentine. I’ve existed in anonymity. Tonight feels different.
My hands go up to my hair, fingers combing through strands that should have been dyed weeks ago. The pink I’d once thought bold now looks washed out, sun-faded at the ends. I mutter to myself that I’ll touch it up this weekend, though I don’t know if that’s for me or for him.
Why am I so freaking nervous?
It’s Boone. Boone, who brings me coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Boone, who asked before kissing me. Boone, wholooks at me like I’m someone worth seeing instead of someone broken to be ignored or used.
And still, my stomach twists like I’m about to face a firing squad.
The knock comes, sharp and sure, and I jump. My palms are damp. My heart is a traitor pounding in my throat.
I open the door.
Boone stands there in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, veins and muscle corded and strong like he just walked out of some fantasy I never let myself have. His hair is tamed only slightly, like he made the attempt but gave up halfway through. In his hands is a small bouquet of wildflowers, colorful and imperfect in the most beautiful way.
My breath catches.
“Hey,” he says softly, holding them out.
I take them, careful not to smudge my dress with paint-stained fingers I scrubbed at until they were raw. “You brought me flowers?”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Seemed like the thing to do. Thought you’d like them.”
Like them? My chest feels too full. I manage a whisper. “They’re beautiful.”
Before I can step back, his gaze sweeps over me, and it’s like being touched without contact. “And you…” His voice dips lower. “You look fantastic.”
The heat in my cheeks nearly sets me on fire. I fumble, reaching for the bottle of wine I’d set by the door. “I, uh, I picked this up. Thought it might go with dinner. I don’t actually know what you’re making, so?—”
He winces, almost sheepishly. “About that. There’s something I should probably tell you before we head out.”
I tilt my head, suspicious. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not bad,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, had a little trouble with my oven. Don’t laugh—it’s older than sin, and something went wrong with the pilot light. So I asked Gabe to use his grill instead.”
I blink at him. “You… asked Gabe to cook?”
“Well,” Boone says slowly, “it sort of turned into him inviting Shepard too. Pack dinners happen, you know how it goes. But”—his hand lifts, reassuring—“if you’d rather skip it, I totally get it. We can go into town, hit the fish shack or something. Just us.”
For a beat, panic whispers at the edges of my ribs. Dinner with all three of them? It feels too close, too much. But then I catch the way Boone’s watching me, nervous in a way I don’t think he shows many people. He wants this to work, but he’s giving me the out.
I swallow. “I don’t mind,” I say finally. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Really.”
Relief breaks across his face like sunrise. “Okay. Good.”
He leans in then, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something warm, clean, threaded with cedar. His lips brush mine in a kiss that starts soft, then deepens without warning. I gasp against him, my hand clutching the flowers too tightly, and suddenly my back hits the cool metal of his truck.
His mouth is hot and certain, his body crowding mine just enough to make me dizzy. I haven’t been kissed like this—like I’m wanted, like someone’s starved for me—in so long that my knees actually weaken.
When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, I can barely think.
“God,” I whisper. “What are you doing to me?”
