Page 77 of Found by the Pack

He grins, not cocky but tender, like he’s just as dazed as I am. “Asking you out. Again.”

The nervous laugh that escapes me breaks the spell just enough to move. I tuck the flowers safely inside, grab my bag and the wine, and let him lead me to the passenger side.

Inside the car, I’m quiet, twisting the wine label between my fingers. Boone starts the engine, glances at me once, then again.

“You okay?” he asks.

I hesitate, then exhale the truth. “I can’t remember the last time I was on a date.”

His hand finds mine, warm and steady. He lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, like I’m something precious.

“We can turn back,” he murmurs. “No shame in it. We don’t have to do this tonight.”

My throat tightens. The offer is real—no strings, no manipulation, no punishment for saying no. And that’s exactly why I shake my head.

“No,” I say, softer than a whisper. “It’s all good. I want to.”

“You sure, baby?”

The endearment cuts through me, not like Gabe’s careless “baby” in the bakery, not like the cruel diminutives Scott used to snarl. This one feels different. Gentle. Protective.

I manage a small smile, heart pounding but steady. “I’m sure.”

Boone squeezes my hand before turning back to the road, and I hold on, letting the hum of the truck engine drown out my fear. I’m no longer bracing for disaster. I’m bracing for possibility.

And that might be even scarier.

The first thing I notice about the house is that it feels… lived in.

Not polished, not magazine-perfect, but real. It’s the kind of place that speaks of men who work long shifts, come home tired, and drop their boots by the door without thinking twice.

A faint smell of smoke clings to everything—woodsmoke from the fireplace, I realize after a second, not the acrid kind from flames devouring a building. Still, my stomach flutters.

Boone opens the door wider, stepping aside so I can enter. My palms sweat against the strap of my bag. It’s one thing to imagine dinner at his place, just us. It’s another to step into the territory of a pack that already takes up so much space in my head.

The living room sprawls wide, a mix of old and new. A sturdy leather sofa, worn in the cushions, sits against the wall. A mismatched armchair is angled toward it, a knitted throw draped carelessly over the back. Framed photos line a shelf above the television: firehouse group shots, town events, candid smiles.

My eyes catch on one picture in particular—two boys in the middle of summer, dripping wet at a lake, grinning into the sun.

Boone’s hand brushes mine lightly. “That’s me and Sawyer. My brother.”

I turn to look at him. There’s a softness in his expression that makes me hold my breath.

“He passed away a while back,” Boone says quietly, not embellishing, not hiding. Just the truth, laid bare.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. The words feel insufficient, too small for the shadow that flickers in his eyes.

He nods once, as if to say “me too,” and then gestures deeper into the house. “Want a tour?”

“Sure.” My voice doesn’t wobble, but I can feel the nerves thrumming under my skin.

We move through the hallway, and it’s a window into their lives. The kitchen is open and warm, cabinets lined with mugs that don’t match, a fridge plastered with magnets from fire department fundraisers and the Driftwood Cove Fall Fair. The dining table is sturdy wood, scuffed in places, but polished clean.

Back in the living room, Shepard rises from the couch when we return, setting his beer aside. His eyes land on me, steady, a flicker of something unreadable there before he smiles. “Evening, Sadie.”

“Hi,” I manage, my pulse quickening under his gaze. I’ve been so wrapped up in Boone’s orbit that I’d somehow forgotten how much Shepard affects me too, in that quiet, disarming way.

Gabe emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His presence is heavier, broader, more commanding. “You made it,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes scan me with a sharpness that makes me want to fidget.