Chapter Fourteen

Dolly

I needed to get out of the car.

I had been fine all day, really. Got Nash off to school, worked a few hours at the store, and then came home around two to make the pie. A simple routine, no big deal. Except, of course, the whole time, I was doing my best not to think about Boone. Not think about how the pie I was making was Nash's favorite or how I was about to spend the evening with Boone. Well, not the night night , but still… we'd be together for a while.

That thought alone sent my nerves spinning. I gripped the steering wheel, feeling the cool leather against my palms as I stared at Boone's house in front of me. What if this was a mistake? Maybe we'd both changed so much over the years that we weren't Dolly and Boone anymore. Maybe it'd be awkward, and everything between us would just fall apart.

The idea of cranking the car and driving back home felt almost too tempting.

But I didn't.

Instead, I glanced at the pie sitting in the passenger seat, took a deep breath, and grabbed it. I opened the car door, the cool October breeze rushing in, and I slid out.

Before I could even take a step, I heard his voice from the porch. "I was wondering if you were gonna get out or if I'd have to call the fire department to pry you out with the jaws of life."

I rolled my eyes, unable to fight back the grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "Real funny, Boone," I muttered, bumping the car door shut with my hip as I turned to face him.

And there he was, standing on his front porch with that cocky grin on his face like he had all the time in the world. He was wearing dark wash jeans that hugged his legs just right, a white western button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and—God help me—he was barefoot. The man looked like he'd stepped out of a cowboy calendar but in the most effortless way.

His face was still the same. Strong jawline with just the right amount of stubble covering it, dark hair tousled like he'd run his hand through it a few too many times. And those eyes—hazel with flecks of green and gold, the kind that always seemed to see right through me.

He leaned against the porch post, his arms crossed over his chest, the picture of laid-back confidence. "You alright there, honey?"

"I'm fine," I lied, my heart doing somersaults. Friends. We were just friends. Friends did not make each other hearts do somersaults.

Boone's grin widened as he uncrossed his arms and came down the steps, walking toward me. "You sure about that? You looked like you were planning your escape."

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" I shot back, balancing the pie dish in my hands. All of the memories that pie carried with it were sinking into my bones.

Buttermilk pie was Boone's absolute favorite. At least it was fifteen years ago.

His gaze flicked down to the pie, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Buttermilk pie," I said, holding it up slightly. "Just like the one you used to love."

Boone's expression softened, the teasing edge in his voice slipping away. "You made this for me?"

"Well, I didn't make it for the UPS guy," I quipped, but my voice was quieter and more vulnerable than I intended. "And I didn't think making a pie you don't like would be a good idea. You still like buttermilk pie, right?"

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, everything felt like it had slowed down. The years, the distance, the hurt between us—it all melted away in the warmth of that look. I didn't know what to say, so I just held out the pie to him.

"You gonna let me inside, or are we eating this on the front lawn?" I asked, trying to break the tension.

Boone blinked and snapped out of whatever moment we were in. "Hell, no. Get on in here." He took the pie from my hands with one smooth motion and turned to lead me inside. "And I haven't had a buttermilk pie since I left Magnolia Grove. It's not really a popular pie outside of Alabama."

"I guess that's a good reason to just stay here. How barbaric not to know what buttermilk pie is," I quipped.

I followed him into the house, the familiar smell of wood and old leather filling the air. His place was simple, but it felt like him—rustic, lived-in, and basic. Definitely a bachelor pad. He set the pie down on the kitchen island, and I hovered awkwardly by the door, unsure of what to do next.

"Dolly, you can come in, you know," Boone said, his deep voice breaking through the silence and catching me standing awkwardly like a deer caught in headlights.

"Oh, right," I mumbled and felt my face heat up. Why was I so nervous? It wasn't like I hadn't been around Boone before. But something about this time felt different. I fumbled with my keys and tossed them onto the small table by the front door, then made my way into the kitchen, trying to act casual, even though my heart was racing.

"As much as I'd like to dig into this pie," Boone said as he carefully placed the pie on the counter, "I think we better see if I can make something edible for dinner first." He turned toward me with that easygoing smile that made my knees feel weak. "Where should we start?"

I was a little thrown off. My eyes wandered around the kitchen, and for a moment, I forgot how to speak. His kitchen was… beautiful. Large, open, and filled with light. The countertops were gleaming white marble, and the dark wood cabinets looked rich and sturdy. Stainless steel appliances stood gleaming in the corners, and a big farmhouse sink sat under a window that overlooked the river. It was the kind of kitchen you saw in magazines—the kind of kitchen I'd never have imagined Boone standing in, but somehow, it fit him perfectly.

"Uh, well," I hemmed, still trying to get my bearings. "Let me see what you've got."

I closed my eyes for a second, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. Why did I feel so out of place in this moment? It was Boone. We were just cooking. I wasn't here to impress him. But still, the pressure of being back here with him, in his space, felt heavy. "In the fridge," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Let me see what you've got in the fridge."

Boone's low chuckle met my ears, and I swear it sent shivers down my spine. That laugh. It was like honeyed whiskey, smooth and deep, warming me all the way through.

"I figured, honey."

Oh boy. Honey. That was what he used to call me when we dated. The sound of it rolling off his tongue brought back memories I wasn't ready for. I was his honey, and he was my cowboy. We'd always been so sure of each other back then. The past crept up on me with a bittersweet ache, and I found myself staring at him.

Snap out of it, Dolly. I needed to get cooking, not get lost in Boone's eyes.

Boone noticed me staring and stepped to the side, motioning to the fridge like it was no big deal. "Have at it," he said, grinning.

I cleared my throat, walked over to the fridge, and tugged it open with more force than necessary. Inside, I found the usual bachelor fare—condiments, a carton of eggs, some random leftovers, and a pack of chicken breasts.

"Well, we're going to need to cook up that chicken," I said, pulling out the pack of chicken breasts. I opened the freezer and saw a few bags of frozen vegetables stacked on top of each other. "These frozen veggies steam in the bag, so they'd be easy for you to make."

I glanced back at Boone, expecting him to be looking through the fridge for something else, but he wasn't. He was looking directly at me, leaning casually against the counter with his arms crossed, his hazel eyes locked on mine like I was the most interesting thing in the room. That look sent my stomach into a flutter, and I had to tear my gaze away.

"Uh, do you have potatoes?" I asked, trying to focus on the task at hand. I couldn't remember everything he'd picked up at the store the other day, but potatoes would make the meal a little more substantial.

Boone scratched the back of his neck. "I got two in the pantry. That's about all I have in there besides some crackers and chips."

I laughed and shook my head. "Well, that'll do. We don't need much for this meal." I grabbed the frozen veggies from the freezer and turned to Boone, holding up the chicken and veggies. "This'll work."

He flashed me a grin, and for a second, it was like old times. The easy banter, the way we could communicate with just a glance—it all felt so familiar.

I closed the fridge, feeling a little more settled now that we had a plan. But something dawned on me, and I glanced over at him. "Wait, do you have any spices? This is gonna be a pretty bland meal if you don't."

Boone chuckled again, and I could feel the warmth of his laughter filled the room. "I actually do. The first time Chad came over, his wife sent this big basket with ‘essentials every new homeowner needs,' according to her. There were a few bottles of spices in there. I'll grab ‘em."

As he moved toward the pantry, I took a second to breathe. This wasn't so bad. I could handle this. It was just dinner with Boone, not a walk down memory lane. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself of that, it didn't stop the flood of feelings that kept creeping up every time he smiled at me or said something that reminded me of how we used to be.

Boone came back with a handful of spice bottles, setting them down on the counter in front of me. "Will these work?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

I looked them over—salt, pepper, garlic powder, paprika, and a BBQ blend. "Yep, these'll do just fine."

I set the chicken down on a cutting board after I opened it and started to season it. Boone moved closer to me and watched what I added. I tried to keep my hands steady as Boone watched me, but his presence was impossible to ignore, and it was like he filled the whole room without even trying. Every move I made felt like it was being carefully observed, and not in a bad way. It was just… Boone. He had always had this way of making me feel like I was the center of his universe, and I wasn't sure if I was ready for that again.

"So," Boone said, leaning against the counter, "you really became a chef?"

I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as I rubbed the seasoning into the chicken breasts. "Not really, Boone," I laughed. "This is just basic cooking. It's pretty frowned upon if I can't feed Nash."

Boone nodded, his expression softening at the mention of Nash. "I have to admit, it's pretty crazy that you have a kid."

I smiled, thinking about Nash. "Yeah, I think I'm finally used to being called mom," I joked.

"I bet," he whispered.

I held up my dirty hands, feeling the raw chicken slime coating my fingers. "Uh, one thing to remember is to always wash your hands after touching raw chicken. Otherwise, you'll pretty easily poison yourself."

Boone tapped his finger to the side of his head like he was making a mental note. "I'll remember that."

"Could you turn on the hot water for me?" I asked, holding my hands up like I was about to commit a crime.

We moved over to the sink, and Boone turned on the faucet. Hot water gushed out, swirling with steam, and I wasted no time scrubbing my hands with soap.

"Um, do you want to get a frying pan and the potatoes?" I suggested as I rinsed the last of the suds away.

Boone nodded and went to gather the things I'd asked for while I grabbed the dish towel and dried my hands. It felt good to have something to do—something that didn't involve standing there gawking at Boone like a schoolgirl with a crush. His kitchen was spotless, the kind of setup you see in those high-end home magazines. Marble countertops gleamed under the soft pendant lights, and there was a large island in the middle with stools lined up neatly. The fridge was one of those stainless steel ones that made my plain white one back at home look like it came from a garage sale. Everything in Boone's kitchen felt too new, too shiny, like he hadn't really lived in it yet.

I put the towel down. "The frying pan can go on the stove," I told him. "And the potatoes can get a quick scrub in the sink. Are you good with baked potatoes?"

Boone set the frying pan on the stove with a soft clink and glanced over at me. "Sounds good to me." He grabbed the potatoes and started to scrub them with a focus that made me smile.

Once he finished, I handed him a fork. "Now, poke a few holes in them before we throw them in the oven."

He took the fork and pierced the potatoes. "You sure these aren't going to explode or something?" he asked with mock suspicion, raising an eyebrow at me.

I laughed and shook my head. "I promise, they won't. The holes are so the steam can escape. They just need about forty minutes in there, and they'll be perfect."

Boone shrugged like he'd take my word for it, then turned the oven to four hundred and slid the potatoes onto the rack. He stepped back, rubbed his hands together, and eyed the chicken breasts on the counter.

"I have to admit," he said, leaning against the counter, "I'm kind of terrified of chicken now. I'm not looking to be praying to the porcelain god anytime soon."

I let out a chuckle. "It's really not that scary once you get used to it. Just remember, when in doubt, wash it. Your hands, the tongs, anything that touches the raw chicken. That's your number one rule. I promise you'll be fine."

Boone opened his mouth to respond, but his phone started ringing. He glanced down at the screen, his lips quirking. "I think I need to take this," he said, giving me an apologetic look. "Help yourself to anything in the fridge to drink."

I waved my hand, letting him know it was no big deal. "Go ahead. We don't have to do anything with the chicken for another ten minutes or so."

He nodded, already tapping his phone and connecting the call. "Trevor?" he called into the phone, his voice dipping into a more serious tone as he turned on his heel and headed out the patio door to the backyard.

I found myself alone in the kitchen, the distant sound of his voice fading as he stepped outside. I busied myself by wiping down the countertops again, just for something to do. I moved the chicken closer to the stove and checked to make sure the oven was preheating. Everything seemed to be in order.

With a little sigh, I wandered to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. As I took a sip, I leaned against the counter and let my eyes drift toward the patio door where Boone was pacing back and forth on the deck.

Even in the dim light outside, Boone looked good. He had this easy way about him, his long strides slow and steady, like he didn't have a care in the world, but there was a tightness to his jaw that told me whatever conversation he was having was serious. His free hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans as he turned and started pacing in the other direction, his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him.

For a moment, I found myself wondering who Trevor was and what the call was about, but I quickly pushed that thought aside. It wasn't my business.

What was my business, though, was trying to keep things light and easy tonight. I wasn't sure if this evening had started as a cooking lesson or a date or maybe something in between. But so far, it was going smoothly, and I wanted to keep it that way. I wasn't quite sure what Boone had in mind for us tonight or even in the long run. My feelings for him had been bottled up for so long that I wasn't sure if I was ready to open that particular can of worms. I also knew if that can of worms was opened, I was going to have to do some explaining about Nash.

But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by the smell of chicken and potatoes in the oven and the sound of him talking outside, it felt good. Comfortable.

I took another sip of water, watching Boone stop for a moment to run his hand through his hair. His voice was low and steady, but every now and then, I caught the hint of tension, like whatever was being said on the other end of the line wasn't something he particularly wanted to deal with.

All I knew was that tonight was going well, and I hoped—more than I cared to admit—that it stayed that way.