Page 70 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

“Now, you’d normally make this with cayenne pepper, but I leave it out for Forrest,” Boone says, demonstrating each measurement of various spices with weathered hands that move with surprising grace for a man who spends his days with farm equipment and cattle.

His fingers, though callused and marked with the tiny scars of manual labor, handle the delicate spices with unexpected precision.

“The secret’s in the balance. Too much spice overpowers the meat.

The meat is the star, we’re just dressing it up. ”

I nod solemnly, treating his chili recipe with the reverence of ancient scripture. Here in this warm kitchen with the scent of spices hanging in the air, I feel a connection to something primal and essential.

“Now do we add the brown sugar?” I ask, my wooden spoon poised over the pot.

“Not yet,” he cautions, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in a way that reminds me so much of Forrest when he’s concentrating. “Sugar goes in last. Let the spices marry first.” He taps the side of the pot with a gnarled knuckle. “Gotta give ’em time to get acquainted.”

Through the kitchen window, I can see Dakota darting across the front yard in gleeful pursuit of actual, honest-to-god wild rabbits.

Her delighted squeals float through the glass as she zigzags between patches of grass, hands outstretched but never quite fast enough to catch her prey.

Her jacket—a bright pink spot against the muted browns and hidden greens of the Wyoming landscape—has come partially unzipped, and her hair streams behind her like a flag.

“She’s having the time of her life,” I observe, smiling at the sight.

Boone’s expression softens as he watches his granddaughter, the lines around his eyes crinkling deeply. “City kids don’t get much chance to chase real critters, I reckon.”

“The only thing close to wildlife in Brooklyn—outside of the two-legged variety—are feral squirrels. They’re basically tiny mobsters who’ve figured out how to mug tourists for pretzels.”

Boone chuckles, the sound warm and so unexpectedly youthful, it’s like Forrest flashes before my eyes for a brief moment.

He stirs the chili with practiced motions, his plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms mapped with blue veins and old scars.

Each mark tells a story of this life he’s built.

“Dakota was supposed to be our sous-chef, wasn’t she?” he asks, glancing out the window again where his granddaughter has now stopped to examine something in the dead grass with intense four-year-old concentration.

“The call of the wild was too strong to resist,” I say with a dramatic sigh. “She abandoned us for bunny hunting after about forty-seven seconds.”

“Kids her age have the attention span of a hummingbird,” Boone says wisely, a fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s good for her. She needs country air.

” He tastes the chili, considers for a moment, then adds a touch more salt with a flick of his wrist that speaks of decades of cooking this same recipe.

I stir the simmering pot, inhaling the rich aroma of spices and slow-cooked beef.

The kitchen is cozy, lived-in, with well-worn countertops and cabinets that have witnessed decades of family meals.

Photos line the refrigerator—mostly of Forrest at various ages, from gap-toothed kindergartner to serious high school graduate.

In one corner, I spot a newer addition: a school portrait of Dakota that I recognize from Forrest’s wallet.

Looking at these snapshots of Forrest’s life before I knew him creates a strange ache in my chest—a wistfulness for the moments I missed, for the boy who became the man I’m falling for.

Here he is at seven or eight, proudly holding up a fish nearly as big as himself.

There, astride a pony with a look of determined concentration.

Gangly teenage Forrest in a football uniform, his smile uncertain but hopeful.

“You know,” I say, nodding toward the window where we can see Dakota back in hot pursuit, “I didn’t play much outside as a kid. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t have a bad childhood or anything, but my memories as a kid are of going to Wicked on Broadway, or dinners out on the town. Nothing like this.”

“That so?” Boone measures out a careful portion of corn starch, his hands steady despite their slight tremor—a detail I hadn’t noticed before.

He glances at me with genuine interest, his eyes attentive beneath the brim of his indoor hat, which I’ve learned is different from his outdoor hat, though they look identical to my untrained eyes.

“Oh yeah. White dresses, patent-leather shoes, the works. I was like a miniature adult at social functions.” I laugh, though it comes out a bit hollow. “This might be better,” I say, jutting my chin to the window where Dakota is darting in and out of view. “Messier, but…better.”

“Nothing wrong with a little dirt,” Boone says, holding out the canister of brown sugar. His hand brushes mine in the exchange, rough and warm. “Builds character.” He nods toward the pot, indicating it’s time for the sugar to go in.

Through the window, I watch Forrest emerge from behind the barn, toolbelt slung low on his hips.

Even from this distance, I can see the determined set of his shoulders as he surveys the property, mentally cataloging every repair needed.

He’s been at it since breakfast, disappearing almost immediately after our arrival to tackle one project after another.

Boone follows my gaze and makes a tsking sound, shaking his head slowly. “Boy’s trying to cram about three months’ worth of work into one weekend because he feels guilty.” His voice holds equal measures of pride and concern, the complex emotion of a father watching his son push himself too hard.

“Guilty?” I prompt, as I sprinkle the sugar in, more and more, until Boone nods in approval that it’s enough.

“For not being here.” Boone stirs the chili, his movements methodical, almost meditative. A lock of silver hair falls across his forehead, and he brushes it back with the back of his wrist, leaving a smudge of chili powder that I don’t have the heart to point out. “Always was too hard on himself.”

I watch the chili change colors before my eyes. Bright red from the tomato sauce, turning into a rich amber as the spices marinate. “He mentioned the ranch has been struggling.”

“Has its challenges,” Boone admits, a shadow crossing his face.

He looks down at the pot, avoiding my eyes for a moment.

I suspect he’s not accustomed to discussing the ranch’s financial realities with strangers, but after a moment, he continues.

“But it’s not his cross to bear. I always wanted more for Forrest.”

“Columbia Law?”

Boone nods, a flicker of pride lighting his eyes and straightening his posture.

“Supported him going to that fancy- pants law school.” His mouth quirks up in an almost-smile.

“Couldn’t have been prouder when he got in.

I couldn’t do much in the way of paying for it, but my boy figured it out.

” He pauses, watching his son through the window as Forrest kneels to examine a section of fence, his shoulders squared against the November chill.

“Still am proud of him. Not because he’s some hotshot city guy, but because of what a good dad he is. Better than me.”

The sincerity in his voice touches something deep in my chest, and I find myself blinking back unexpected tears. This man, with his coarse hands and sparse words, loves his son with a quiet fierceness.

“He is amazing with Dakota,” I say softly.

“Puts her first, always.” Boone tastes the chili with a small spoon, considers, then adds another whisper of cinnamon.

“That’s what matters.” He taps the spoon against the pot’s rim twice, a gesture I’ve noticed he repeats often, like a small ritual.

“Nothing more important in this world than being there for your kids.”

I think about Forrest’s devotion to his daughter, the way he restructured his entire life to accommodate her needs. The way he lights up when she enters a room. The way he quit his job the moment he realized it might jeopardize his chance at building something real with me— with us .

Dakota appears at the window, face pressed against the glass, her breath creating a small foggy circle.

She waves enthusiastically, then disappears again in a blur of pink jacket and bouncing blond curls.

Boone watches her go, his expression soft with a joy that transforms his usually stern features.

“I’m a little nervous, to be honest,” I admit, surprising myself with the confession. The words tumble out, encouraged perhaps by the calm presence of this man who listens more than he speaks.

“About what?” Boone asks, reaching for the salt and adding a pinch more to the pot.

“About my role in Dakota’s life,” I say, focusing on stirring the chili to avoid his gaze. “Being with Forrest means being with Dakota, and while I’m completely on board with that, I sometimes feel…ill-equipped.”

“How so?” Boone pivots to face me fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. His stance is relaxed, but his eyes are attentive, missing nothing.

“I don’t have much experience with kids.

” I set the spoon down, fidgeting with a dish towel instead.

“I’m an only child. My best friend is childless.

I’m doing my best, but what Forrest has with Dakota is instinctual.

Maybe something that only happens if it’s your own kid, you know?

What if I’m not the mom to her he expects me to be? ”

The last part comes out in a rush, giving voice to fears I hadn’t fully acknowledged even to myself. In my novels, I can revise any scene, delete any misspoken word. Real life offers no such safety net. If there’s one thing that would make Forrest walk away, it’s me screwing up with Dakota.