𝐏𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 ━━ 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥

ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ

chapter eleven — wildlflowers

The morning after the solstice celebration felt like the town had collectively hit snooze. Everything was a little too quiet, a little too slow, like the place itself was nursing a mild hangover. Half-deflated balloons clung to fences. Streamers were slouched over telephone wires like drunken party guests. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster gave the world its worst impression of a trumpet solo.

And Y/N was elbow-deep in soggy funnel cake paper and regretting her life choices.

Technically, she'd volunteered to help clean up. Emotionally, she had not consented to being this close to a dumpster that smelled like someone's childhood trauma.

Boothill was a few feet away, loading folding chairs into the back of a pickup like it was his life's calling. His sleeves were rolled, his hair was damp with sweat, and Y/N was trying very hard not to stare at the way his muscles glistened like he was on a Magic Mike poster.

Seriously. It was becoming a problem. She wasn't sure when looking at him had started feeling different. It just did.

They didn't talk much while they worked, but the silence was easy. Comfortable. The kind of quiet that didn't beg to be filled.

They were wrapping up when Boothill's phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen before answering. "Hey, Dad. Yeah, hold on—Slow down. What happened?"

Y/N watched as his brow furrowed, his easy expression fading into one of mild concern.

"Alright, I'm on my way."

He hung up and turned to her. "A pipe burst at the B&B. Flooded one of the guest rooms. Betty needs a hand, but my dads are out of town 'til tomorrow. Wanna come?"

"Of course," Y/N said, already grabbing her bag. "Is it bad?"

He shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Spoiler: It was bad.

Not end-of-the-world bad, but definitely end-of-carpet bad. A pipe in the room next to Y/N's had given up on life and sprayed water into the wall like it was trying to put out an imaginary fire. That water had politely invited itself into Y/N's room and also two others below.

"Well, shit," Y/N muttered, staring at her soaked belongings.

Boothill was already under the sink like some kind of rugged plumber cowboy hybrid, fixing the pipe with the same calm confidence he used for everything else.

Y/N tried to save what she could, but every few minutes, her eyes wandered over to Boothill. It was like her brain had installed a new subroutine called "Stare at Hot Cowboy" and there was no uninstall button. At one point, he lifted his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow, revealing a sliver of his waist and toned stomach, and Y/N had to avert her eyes like she was a Victorian man seeing ankles for the first time.

This man's waist was going to ruin her life.

By the time the pipe was fixed and the floors were as dry as they were gonna be, it was well into the evening.

"It's fixed, but the rooms can't be used 'til they're treated for water damage," Boothill said, wringing a towel into the sink.