I dry her off gently, wrapping her in the softest towel I can find before carrying her to bed. Then I tuck her in and slide beside her under the blankets.
I lock my arms around her as if letting go might mean losing her again. And I swear if I had my way we’d never leave this bed.
I lay there, wide awake, listening to the sound of her heartbeat against my chest, each steady thump a reminder that she’s here, that she’s alive.
Outside, the snow from the storm falls softly on the roof, the lake a silent, frozen expanse behind us reminding me how badly I fucked up.
Only when I’m certain she’s okay, the night stretches on and the world grows still, do I finally let my eyes close and allow sleep to come.
Chapter 28: Rosie
My dreams are full of Boone.
Boone hugging me on Valentine’s Day in front of our friends and family.
Boone telling me I’m beautiful.
Boone skating around me in circles, looking the happiest he’s been since he got forced into marrying me.
Boone carrying me to safety and holding me in the shower.
They’re so vivid, so real that when I wake up and smell his familiar scent—leather, like his uniform and gloves, mixed with the soft smell of my soap—I’m convinced that I’m still dreaming.
But then I feel it. The solid, unmistakable warmth of damp skin pressed against mine, the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, and the softwooshof his breath as it caresses the top of my head.
I pull back, just enough to take in my reality. He’s here. In my bed. InBrookhaven. Cradling me like I’m something precious, his arms locked tight around me as if he’s afraid to let go. Hiseyes are shut, his breathing repetitive, but there’s worry lines etched in his handsome face like he’s having a bad dream.
The room is wrapped in silence, the kind that only exists deep in the night. I have no sense of what time it is. But the darkness coming in from my balcony window tells me it’s late.
I wiggle a little, testing the hold he has on me, but his arms tighten on instinct, pulling me closer instead of letting me go. A soft groan rattles through his chest but his eyes don’t open.
A smile pulls at my lips, and I give in, nuzzling my face back into the dark hair that’s covering his broad chest and inhaling deeply.
Despite every conversation we’ve had about keeping this thing between us casual and focused on the case, about not crossing lines again, here we are. Naked. Wrapped up in each other. And somehow, nothing about it feels sexual—though the intimacy is undeniable.
I don’t think this is what he meant about ‘not touching me again.’Maybe this is all still friendly to him. Not that I’d know much about friendship.
That thought stops me cold because I do know about friendship now. Boone is my friend. One of the few that I have.
He’s spoken positively about me publicly. He’s looked out for my best interests by forcing us to focus on the case. Hecaresabout me.
More than that, I care about Boone. And the thought of losing that—losinghim—in a month when this is over is the first time in my life that the future doesn’t feel like something to look forward to. It feels like something to dread.
The dinner's that we've spent for show, the simple, easy conversations that we've had laughing and chatting about anything. They've become everything to me. They’re somethingthat I look forward to outside of work. They’ve given me meaning and purpose behind billable hours and career accomplishments.
“Hey,” I whisper, my voice hardly loud enough to break through the quiet because I can't sit here in silence spiraling anymore. I hope it’ll stir him, bring him back to me. I need to talk to him.
He mumbles something about hockey and ice, his words slurred with sleep, and I can’t help but smile. I wonder if this is how he was as a child, dreaming about the thing he loves the most in the world.
I try again, poking him lightly in the hip with my one free hand. “Boone. Wake up.”
“Did you just poke me?” he grumbles, his eyes still closed, voice gravelly and thick.
“I did,” I say, my grin widening.
His arms loosen a fraction, just enough to let me breathe, and his eyes crack open to meet mine. They’re dark, warm, and full of something heavier than I’m used to seeing in him.
It’s concern, I think. He looks wounded too. It’s so different from his usual carefree demeanor, and it hits me all over again—the way he blamed himself in the shower as he tried to warm me up, the way he held me until the warmth came back to my body, and then let me drift off to sleep, safe in his arms while we rested in the tub.
