Page 75 of Found by the Pack

Then I hear boots on gravel.

“Hey,” Boone’s voice calls, deep and warm, and something in my chest skips a beat before I even turn around.

He’s standing there, tall and broad, his hair doing that stubborn sticking-up thing like he just ran his hands through it too many times. And in his hands? A brown paper bag and two takeout cups balanced carefully together.

My lips tug into a smile I don’t plan. “You bribing me with food now?”

His grin flashes, boyish and unguarded. “Figured an artist needs fuel. I stopped by Cora’s—got you a breakfast sandwich and coffee. Hope you like it sweet, because I don’t trust bitter.”

I wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my overalls and cross over to him, suddenly very aware of the paint streaks on my cheeks and the messy bun barely hanging on at the back of my head. He doesn’t seem to care, though. If anything, his eyes linger on my every movement.

“Thank you,” I murmur, accepting the cup first because the warmth feels good against my paint-chilled fingers.

He glances past me at the wall. “Looks good. Really good. You’re almost there.”

I follow his gaze. The phoenix is taking shape now, wings spread wide, fiery feathers erupting into oranges and pinks that cut against the old brick. It feels like a piece of me—something I didn’t think I could ever put out into the world and yet here it is, demanding attention.

“Probably be done in a day or two,” I admit softly. There’s pride in my voice, and that surprises me too. I haven’t let myself feel proud in a long time.

Boone’s eyes come back to me, steady and unflinching. And then, with a gentleness that knocks the air from my lungs, he reaches out and touches my cheek. Just the brush of his fingers against my skin, but it sends a shockwave straight through me. I don’t pull away. I don’t even think about it.

His thumb grazes over a smudge of paint at the corner of my jaw. “You’ve got half the mural on your face.”

“Comes with the territory,” I whisper, though my voice sounds different—softer, caught between nerves and something else I don’t want to name.

The corner of his mouth lifts like he’s fighting a smile. He drops his hand and then clears his throat. “I was thinking… maybe tonight you’d let me return the favor. Dinner, at my place.”

I blink. “Dinner?”

“Yeah.” His tone is casual, but his eyes are anything but. “I cook. Or at least I try to. Nothing fancy, but I was wondering if you’d mind coming over. Maybe grilled chicken, something simple.”

For a moment, I’m back in Memphis. Invitations were never invitations there—they were orders. Come here, do this, belong to us. My body tenses before I can stop it, but Boone doesn’t push. He just waits, like my answer actually matters.

And the strangest thing? I want to say yes.

“I’d like that,” I hear myself say, and the giddiness that blooms in my chest is so unfamiliar it almost feels wrong. But it’s not wrong. Not this time.

His shoulders relax, like he wasn’t sure I’d agree. Then, as if emboldened, he leans a little closer. “Can I—” His voice drops. “Can I kiss you before I head out?”

Every nerve in my body lights up. I nod before my brain catches up.

And then he does.

It’s not a desperate kiss. Not a claiming, not a punishment, not a taking. Just lips against mine, warm and careful, like he’s asking the whole way through if I want this.

I do. God, I do.

My hands tremble as they find his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric to anchor myself because the ground feels unsteady.

When he finally pulls back, I’m breathless. My lips tingle. My chest feels like someone lit a sparkler inside it, burning bright and impossible to hide.

Boone smiles at me like I’ve just given him something priceless. “Tonight, then,” he says, voice rough.

I nod again, probably too fast, but I can’t stop the ridiculous grin tugging at my mouth. “Tonight.”

He leaves me standing there with my breakfast and my mural and the kind of wild, giddy excitement I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.

I press my fingers to my lips once he’s gone. It’s insane, really, how a single kiss can unravel me more than years of damage ever did. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Maybe never. And it terrifies me.