His face softens. And darkens. Both at once. There’s anger there too, leashed and contained. Not at me. At whoever made me need a sentence like that.
Marcus.
HR.
The world.
All of the above.
“Delaney.”
Just my name. Nothing else. But somehow it sounds like an apology and a vow and a warning all wrapped together.
I look away fast. The kitchen feels suddenly too small.
He clears his throat, the sound rough. When he steps back, it’s only half a foot, but it lets me pull in a fuller breath.
“Come here.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods toward the pantry. “Come on.”
I hesitate. My instincts are yelling that following men into enclosed spaces is how I ended up in headlines.
“Please,” he adds, quieter.
That does it.
Boone Taylor does not say please.
I set the jar down carefully, like it might explode if I jostle it, and follow him toward the pantry. His shoulders fill the doorway; I have to turn sideways to slip past him, my arm brushing his chest for the briefest second.
Heat sparks along my skin, ridiculous and instant.
Focus.
He reaches up to the top shelf. When he stretches, his Henley pulls taut over his back, the fabric outlining the long lines of muscles across his shoulders, down his spine, the way his jeans sit low on his hips.
Absolutely not. Brain, we are not doing this.
He grabs something and lowers his arm.
A lunchbox.
Purple plastic, scuffed up, covered in faded stickers. Unicorns and stars and a crooked rainbow.
He glances at me, almost sheepish. “Sadie’s.”
My chest squeezes. Of course it is.
He pops the lid. Inside, instead of sandwiches and juice boxes, there’s a mess of paper. Receipts folded into tiny squares. Crumpled ticket stubs. A hospital bracelet. A napkin with a childish drawing in marker. Three stick people and a horse, labeled in wobbly letters:DAD, ME, CALEB, MOOSE.
Boone looks down at it like he’s looking into a wrecked part of his own chest. He reaches in, picks up a receipt, turns it over between his fingers.
“I say it’s practical,” he tells me slowly. “That I keep these for records, in case the accountant needs them. That this is just… overflow.”
He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. “It’s not.”
