CURTISSLYNN PUBLISHING

Eden stood outside Boone's office door, her hand raised to knock and tried to steady her breathing.
She could see him through the small window. Sitting at his desk, head bent, shoulders hunched. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody bar towel, and even from here she could see the tension radiating off him in waves.
He'd almost killed that guy.  Would have, if she hadn't stopped him.
And now he was sitting alone in his office, bleeding, and Eden couldn't walk away.
She gave the door a light knock—more warning than request—and pushed it open without waiting for permission.
Boone's head snapped up. His eyes were dark, guarded, but something flickered across his face when he saw her. Surprise, maybe. Or wariness.
"I didn't say you could come in." His voice was rough. Tired.
Eden didn't respond. She just crossed to the first aid kit hanging on the wall—right where it had always been, eleven years ago when she used to wait tables here—and pulled it down. The metal box was heavier than she remembered, the hinges creaking when she opened it.
She set it on the desk and pulled up the chair beside him.
Boone watched her, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing?"
"Let me see your hand."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding through the towel." Eden met his eyes. "Let me see your hand, Boone."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Just stared at her like he was trying to figure out what game she was playing.
Then, slowly, he unwrapped the towel and set his hand on the desk.
Eden's breath caught.
His knuckles were a mess. Split skin. Dried blood crusted over swollen tissue. The index finger looked the worst—a deep gash that needed stitches if he'd go to the ER, which she knew he wouldn't.
"Jesus, Boone." She opened the first aid kit and pulled out antiseptic wipes, gauze, tape.
"I've had worse."
"That's not reassuring."
Eden reached for his hand, and the second her fingers touched his skin, everything in her body went still.
His hand was warm. Rough. Callused from years of manual labor—building his distillery, working the bar, living a life she knew nothing about anymore.
But it felt the same. Exactly the same.
She remembered these hands. Remembered the way they'd felt cupping her face. Sliding down her spine. Threading through her hair while he kissed her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Eden swallowed hard and focused on the task at hand. She tore open an antiseptic wipe and pressed it gently to his knuckles.
Boone hissed, his whole body going tense.
"Sorry," she murmured. "This is going to sting."
"I know." His voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
Eden worked in silence, cleaning each cut with careful precision. The antiseptic smelled sharp—medicinal and sterile—cutting through the lingering scents of bourbon and leather that always seemed to cling to Boone.
She could feel his eyes on her. Watching. Studying.
Her heart was beating too fast. Her hands were trembling just slightly, though she tried to hide it.
His breathing had changed too. Deeper. More deliberate. Like he was trying to control it.
Eden moved to the next knuckle, her thumb pressing against the back of his hand to steady it. His skin was hot under her touch. His pulse thrummed beneath her fingers—fast, strong, alive.
She'd forgotten what it felt like to touch him. To be this close. To smell the sexy combination of soap and whiskey and Boone that made her entire nervous system light up.
"You're good at this," he said quietly.
"I should be. I've been doing it for years."
"Nursing."
"Yeah." Eden reached for the gauze and started wrapping his knuckles. "Though usually my patients are more cooperative about going to the ER when they need stitches."
"I don't need stitches."
"Your index finger would beg to differ." She secured the gauze with tape and moved to the next finger. "But since I know you won't go, I'll save my breath."
The corner of Boone's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Smart woman."
They fell into silence again. Eden worked methodically, wrapping each injured knuckle, trying to ignore the way her body was responding to being this close to him.
The heat radiating off his chest. The way his jaw flexed when she applied pressure to a particularly deep cut. The sound of his breathing—steady but elevated, like he was fighting the same battle she was.
When she finished, she pressed the last piece of tape into place and sat back.
"Done." Her voice came out rougher than she intended. "Try not to punch anyone else tonight."
Boone flexed his hand slowly, testing the bandages. "No promises."
Eden closed the first aid kit and started to stand, needing distance, needing air, needing to get out of this small office before she did something stupid like lean into him and—
His hand came down on her knee.
Gentle pressure. But firm enough to stop her.
Eden froze.
"Why are you back in Sutter, Eden?" Boone's voice was quiet. Serious. "Just tell me that."
Her throat went tight. She stared at his hand on her knee—his bandaged, broken hand—and tried to find words that weren't a lie but weren't the whole truth either.
"Because it's home," she said finally.
"And my bar?" He pressed, his eyes never leaving hers. "Why here? Why work for Vera?"
"Because she needed a waitress."
She watched him take a deep breath, his chest heaving under the weight of whatever he was feeling. His shirt stretched across his shoulders, and Eden could see the tension coiled in every muscle.
"So this is how it's going to be?" His voice was soft but edged with something that sounded like pain. "We've gone from making love under the stars, lying skin to skin in the back of my pickup truck sharing secrets and dreams, to polite answers?"
Eden felt the tears building but held them back. Forced them down. Refused to let them fall.
"It's me, Eden." Boone's voice dropped even lower. Intimate. The way he used to talk to her when they were alone. "Boone. The man you gave your virginity and your heart to eleven years ago."
The words hit her hard.
Eden tried to push the chair back, to put distance between them, to get out before she broke completely.
But his hand shot out and clamped down on the arm of her chair, holding it in place.
"Boone, please—"
"I may not have your heart anymore." His jaw was tight, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her chest ache. "But I think our history should at least grant me honest answers. Why are you lying to me?"
Her lips trembled. She bit down hard, trying to hold it together. This was dangerous. Letting him in. Letting him see her. God, she was so tired of being afraid. 
But still… "Because the truth is too hard to admit," she whispered.
Boone searched her eyes. It felt like he was putting her under a microscope. Seeing too much. Getting too close to things she'd buried so deep she'd almost convinced herself they weren't real.
She couldn't bear it.
Finally, he let go of the chair and leaned back in his seat.
Eden saw her chance.
She jumped up, nearly knocking over the first aid kit. "I have to get back to work."
"This isn't over," Boone said behind her.