Page 24 of Secret Southern Promises

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 hiselbows, 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, inhisspace, 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.

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