Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
I hadn’t meant to admit that last part, but once it was out, there wasn’t really anything I could do about it. I took another long draw from the iced coffee before closing my eyes again and enjoying the feel of the sun streaming in with the breeze. After the sweaty, smelly, stuffy work in the horse barn all morning, it was a treat just to lie back and breathe without having to lift a single one of my aching muscles.
We rode in silence for a little while longer. Clearly, Boone was having big thoughts because he was the one who broke the silence again.
“He’s a good man, you know. Oscar.”
I opened my eyes to determine whether he was fucking with me or not. He looked serious.
I shrugged before closing my eyes again. “If you say so.” It was obvious by my dismissive tone of voice that I totally disagreed.
He blew out a breath and tightened a hand around the steering wheel. “No. Seriously. He puts up a front, I think. Doesn’t want people to see his vulnerabilities. His stories aren’t mine to tell, but… his life hasn’t always been easy, you know?”
I thought of the billionaire who seemed to know every influential person on Earth and moved through the highest levels of society like he was above even that. Oscar was untouchable, the kind of wealthy that allowed him to be eccentric and odd in an endearing way—I mean, he carried a pet hedgehog in his pocket, for fuck’s sake, and if that wasn’t eccentricity in a nutshell, I didn’t know what was—and I knew he was an uncompromising champion for the people he chose to be his friends. But for the people he hadn’t chosen…
“If Oscar has vulnerabilities, they must have been on sale at Chanel in Paris,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
A muscle ticked along Boone’s jaw, but he didn’t respond.
In the silence that followed, I rolled my head to look out the window, watching the scenery whiz by in a blur. I hadn’t slept well in weeks. Between partying with my friends, which involved drinking too much and staying up too late, and the stress of fighting with my father, I was running on severe sleep deprivation. One decent night’s sleep in the bunkhouse must not have made a dent because, for some reason, being with Boone made me want to let go and fall deeply asleep again.
Maybe it was his quiet nature or his large, steady presence. Boone seemed like a man who knew the answers to all the questions and didn’t make a fuss over trivial things. It was calming. Comforting. Sort of like James, but different too. James was dependable as a rock, but I always got the feeling that his brain was buzzing, even during our quiet times. Like he was making a giant to-do list or calculating the hours passing when he wasn’t billing a client. Like there was someplace else he’d rather be.
Boone, on the other hand, seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be, doing exactly what he wanted to do. I admired people like that. I didn’t know the man at all, but my first impression was that Boone Hammond was someone you wanted on your side when the shit hit the fan.
And shit hit the fan often in my life.
I put the thoughts out of my mind and tried to rest. God knew there was more shit for me to shovel when we got back to the ranch, and I would need every last bit of energy to make it happen without keeling over.
Except my brain wouldn’t let me sleep. Instead, my thoughts kept churning over what Boone had said about Oscar having vulnerabilities. That wasn’t the kind of observation that came from a casual friendship or hookup; that was the kind of insight that came from truly knowing someone well. Oscar had mentioned dating Boone in the past, but I’d assumed it was more of a fling type of situation—that Boone was just another notch in Oscar’s rather scarred bedpost. In what world did Boone and Oscar become that close?
After about ninety seconds of trying to calm my mind, I blurted out, “How do you know him so well? Oscar, that is.”
Boone tapped his fingers against the steering wheel for a moment. It was difficult not to notice the strength in his hands, the scars along the back of his knuckles, and the ropey muscles twisting up his arms.
“We dated in high school,” Boone said, matter-of-fact.
The words made me snort. I tried to picture a younger Oscar dating a younger Boone. It didn’t compute.
“You dated Oscar in high school?” I repeated. “I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The man has either dated or fucked every man he’s ever met. Except me, of course,” I hastily added.