There.
That right there is the thing Boone Taylor never says out loud.
He turns away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “She works for me. She lives here. Sadie?—”
“I know,” I say. “Believe me, I know.”
I step closer, not enough to crowd him, but enough so he knows I’m not joking anymore.
“But you didn’t take advantage of her,” I remind him. “You didn’t trick her. You didn’t trap her. She wasn’t thinking about her job, or the ranch, or the goddamn PTA bake sale, Boone. She looked at you like she was choosing you.”
He flinches at that.
Which, frankly, is fascinating.
“Whatever this is,” I continue, “it isn’t one-sided.”
He doesn’t deny it.
Can’t.
He just presses his palms harder into the counter until the wood groans.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” he mutters. “I can’t be that man. Not with her.”
I sigh. Dramatic enough to make him twitch.
“Well,” I say, “if it makes you feel any better… I already beat you to it.”
Boone goes still.
Not regular still.
Statue still.
Someone hit pause on a very large, very dangerous man.
“What?” he says carefully.
“Okay,” I hold up both palms, hands open in peace, “before you rip my head off and feed it to the horses, let me clarify: it was before I knew who she was. Before I knew she worked here. Before I even knew her last name.”
His eyelid twitches.
Uh oh.
Time to rip the Band-Aid.
“I slept with her,” I say plainly. “At The Hollow. About a week before she moved in.”
Boone inhales sharply, acting as if I just punched him in the sternum.
“It wasn’t planned,” I add quickly. “I didn’t know she was your new chef. She walked into the bar looking like someone dipped sunshine into heartbreak and set it loose on the world, and?—”
“Silas.”
“—and she laughed at one of my jokes.”
His glare sharpens. “You’ll sleep with anyone who laughs at one of your jokes.”
