Dream Chaser (Dream Team #2) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,116

declared himself “pooped.”

Though he looked like he could take on the night, but Anne-Marie was pretending like she wasn’t waning.

They were Ubering over in the morning to have coffee and doughnuts to tide us over here, late brunch at Racines after we showed them the house.

And then, on the way home, I’d talked Boone into letting me cook them my lasagna tomorrow night. Something which I assured him was my mother’s recipe, she’d taught me how to make it, and it was the only thing in my culinary repertoire that I could promise was delicious.

I was looking forward to it.

All of it.

“It’s cool, baby,” Boone called.

I went in, turned, closed the door, locked it, and did this saying, “I hope we start bickering like your parents. They’re hilarious.”

When I turned around, I nearly cried out, because Boone was right there, I wasn’t expecting it, and he’d frightened me.

I was frightened no more when Boone’s hands went right to my ass, I was shifted and walking backwards, Boone walking forward and talking.

“Didn’t get the chance to tell you I like these jeans,” he muttered, squeezing my ass.

“Good to know,” I muttered back, sliding my hands up his chest.

“And your shirt is fuckin’ awesome,” he went on.

“The sleeves were annoying. They get in the way when you eat.”

The backs of my legs hit the bed and then my blouse was gone.

Well, that took care of that problem, not that I was eating anything else that night.

I hoped Boone was, though.

“Told you they’d love you,” he whispered.

“You failed to mention I’d love them,” I whispered back.

He smiled at me.

Then he slanted his head and kissed me as he fell into me and we landed on the bed.

And I would find that Boone wasn’t done eating that night.

But he wouldn’t be the only one with something in his mouth.

Chapter Twenty

Never in My Life

Ryn

I never had a single worry, and I told Boone that. You see, I was a late bloomer too,” Anne-Marie announced.

It was the next morning and we were sitting at Boone’s round dining room table, Anne-Marie and me.

Boone and Porter were in the kitchen, Boone making his mother more coffee, Porter getting another doughnut.

Just to say, the Sadlers could put away coffee.

And Porter could put away doughnuts.

“Don’t let her feed you that crap,” Porter stated, approaching the table. “I’ve seen pictures of her when she was at every walk of her life and been at her side for more than half of it, and she’s always been gorgeous.”

He stopped to bend over to kiss the top of her hair.

Anne-Marie was smiling happily.

Porter straightened and moved back to his chair, saying, “But no joke, Boone was one scrawny, ugly little cuss.”

I choked on my coffee.

“Porter!” Anne-Marie bit out.

“I’m not lying,” Porter said.

“Truly,” Anne-Marie turned to me, “if I get through this weekend without killing him, it’ll be a miracle.”

“If I get through this weekend without killing both of you, it’ll be a miracle,” Boone said from the kitchen.

Anne-Marie twisted toward her son. “I’m not acting up.”

“Mom, you’re telling my girlfriend what an ugly fuck I was.”

“Boone Andrew Sadler! Language!” she cried irately.

Oh my God, these people were funny.

“Mom, I’m thirty-three. I can say ‘fuck’ in my own house, especially when you keep talking about this shit with my woman,” Boone retorted. “I think you get I like her. So I’d also like her to hang around after you leave.”

I fought, and won, against the desire to laugh.

“It isn’t like you didn’t tell me yourself, honey,” I reminded him, though in his current mood, I did it carefully.

“Yeah, Rynnie, but I’m not a huge fan of it bein’ discussed through Dad eating three doughnuts,” Boone returned.

“Are we counting?” Porter asked.

“Porter, really. Your cholesterol,” Anne-Marie said low.

“I’m fit as a fiddle,” he declared.

She gave me another head shake, this one meaning men and their delusions about their health.

“You know, this isn’t all that brilliant, now you got a woman to gang up on us with,” Porter pointed out, not missing the shaking head, or, it seemed, the message it sent.

“Finally,” she shot back, and to me, “You can imagine,” she said that last word in a dire tone, “me and four boys in my home. It does not start, nor does it end, with their proclivity toward the f-word, let me tell you.”

She gave a fake shiver.

It was a good one.

At that, I let myself start laughing.

“I’ve been absolutely living for the day when my sons found women so I’d have a break from all…things…man,”