The second day was worse.
Ivy woke exhausted again, her body aching from another night of restless sleep. She'd dreamed about Boone—about his hands on her skin, about his voice murmuring Spanish words she didn't understand, about the way he'd looked at her like she was everything.
She'd woken up aching and alone.
The Briar Patch was busy that morning—a tour bus had stopped in town, and suddenly the shop was full of tourists wanting coffee and pastries and books about Appalachian history. Ivy moved through the rush on autopilot, smiling and chatting and making recommendations, but her mind was elsewhere.
Around two o'clock, she heard his voice.
Not in the shop—outside, on the street. Boone was talking to someone, his deep voice carrying through the open door. Ivy's entire body went rig
