His head snaps up as if I’ve just thrown something at him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Raw agony flashes through his eyes. He looks… offended? Embarrassed? Wrecked?
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“I see you with her,” I cut in, softer. “You show up. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts. That matters, Boone.”
He watches me for a long, thick beat.
I turn back to the pan, because that look on his face feels too big in my chest. The oil’s shimmering again. I toss the potatoes in; they hit the heat with a satisfying hiss, filling the room with the smell of rosemary and comfort.
He steps closer, drawn by the sound, or the smell, or something else entirely.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Crispy smashed potatoes. Chicken’s almost done. Green salad. Lemon dressing?—”
“Sadie’ll like that.”
My mouth tugs. “I hope so.”
“You’ve got a good track record with her so far.”
It’s said casually, but it lands somewhere warm.
“Even with muffins?” I tease.
“Especially with muffins.”
He’s closer again, his shoulder almost brushing mine as he watches the potatoes brown. I slide the spatula underneath, flipping them, then turn off the burner.
Every cell in my body is suddenly, excruciatingly aware of how near he is.
He smells of soap and sun and leather. Clean sweat and fresh air, which tangles with the scent of garlic and makes my brain fuzz at the edges.
I shouldn’t be this aware of him.
Of the way his arm flexes when he braces his palm on the counter. Of the vein down his forearm. Of the small nick on his knuckle.
Of the heat radiating off him and curling around my side.
I don’t know who moves first.
One second, I’m watching his eyes, the next my body is angled toward his, like there’s a magnet under my skin and he’s the only thing it recognizes.
“Delaney,” he rasps, my name husky at the edges, half warning, half… more.
My heart trips. “Yeah?”
His hand lifts.
