Silas shook his head, pulled his travel mug out of the bag, and snorted when he read: MY GIRL LOVES MY MEAT.
He mock glared at her, then smiled. “Yeah, this one’s definitely going to work with me.”
Kenny snorted. “You better keep it in the back kitchen or somebody’s grandmother is gonna faint.”
He shrugged. “I mean, if they’re in the restaurant, one would assume they love my meat, too.”
Boone laughed. “You’re saying everyone loves your meat?”
Silas shook his head, suddenly serious. “The vegetarians think I am evil incarnate.”
Willow laughed. “I mean, youdohave your moments, Sir.”
He raised his brows. “You know, I’m beginning to see a theme.”
Willow beamed. “I stand by all statements.”
“There’s one more,” she said, and he dove into the tissue paper like a bloodhound.
Out came the t-shirt — bold red letters on soft black cotton: LOW HEAT. LONG COOK. JUICY RESULTS.
Boone barked out a laugh. “That’s it. That’s your new motto.”
“Printed truth,” Kenny agreed.
Silas looked at Willow, mock horror in his voice. “You gave me a slogan. I have a slogan now.”
Willow felt pretty pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.”
She went for the last box, larger than the others and wrapped in thick, deep red craft paper with hunter green twine.
She brought it to Boone and set it on the ottoman she’d sat on earlier.
He opened it and froze.
Inside lay a custom-balanced compound hunting bow, sleek and deadly, fitted with a hand-tooled leather sling dyed in charcoal gray and rich russet brown.
He picked it up, turned it, tested the grip.
“It’s a ninety-pound draw,” she said softly. “The quiver’s leather. It should wear in perfectly.”
Boone didn’t say anything, just ran his thumb along the grain and then looked at her like he was trying to understand something far deeper than the weapon. Finally, he said, “It’s perfect. I can’t wait to try it out later. Thank you.”
He kissed her, and she grinned against his lips, looking forward to watching him read his mugs and shirt. When he pulled away, she handed him the final bag.
Boone pulled the mug out first, gave it one look, and snorted: YOUR HOLE IS MY GOAL printed under a giant yellow excavator.
“You didnot,” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
Kenny leaned forward, deadpan. “She really leans into your profession.”
Silas raised a brow. “The thing is, we can use all of our naughty mugs in public. Accuse other people of being dirty-minded if they get something else out of it.”
Boone set it on the table, still chuckling. “That one’s absolutely coming out after full moon runs.”
He reached back into the bag and pulled out the travel mug. Black stainless steel with bold white lettering. I RUN HOES FOR MONEY printed above a yellow backhoe.
He lost it. Full-body laugh, loud and unapologetic. “Fuck if I don’t.”
