Sadie giggles. “Miss Delaney said it was art.”
“Abstract art,” Delaney corrects, her lips twitching.
I step closer.
And I immediately regret it.
Because suddenly I can smell her—vanilla, warm butter, lemon zest—and my body reacts crazily.
She’s small beside me, close enough that our arms brush. Not even a full touch, just a whisper of contact, but my heart kicks, trying to break free.
Her head tilts up, eyes catching mine.
Big. Brown. Soft.
And for a second, just one, my breath stops.
Just gone.
Because she’s pretty, yes. Anyone can see she’s pretty.
But it’s more than that.
It’s the way she looks at me.
To her, I’m not just heavy. I’m not made of old wounds and responsibilities and the kind of history that sticks to a man.
It’s the way she stands so damn close without fear.
It’s the way her laugh still lingers in the room, warming all the cold places Sadie and I have lived inside.
Heat shoots through me, pooling in places I’ve ignored for years.
No, absolutely not. I step back abruptly, and her eyes flicker with confusion.
I clear my throat. “Work to do. Morning chores.”
I sound ridiculous. A teenager caught staring. Work is safer. Fences don’t smile at you. Horses don’t make you forget how old you are.
“Boone.”
I freeze.
I shouldn’t freeze at the sound of my own name leaving her mouth, but I do.
She brushes her cheek again and offers me a smile. “The muffins will be ready soon. You can have one before you head out.”
And I swear the kitchen tilts.
It’s nothing.
Just kindness.
Just an offer of food.
But coming from her…
“Save me one,” I mutter.
