Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I frown. “Unfortunate like what?”
“Break-ins. Fires. Livestock ‘accidents.’” His jaw tightens. “Nothing they could pin on anyone. But the pattern smells.”
My stomach turns. “So we’re not special. We’re just next.”
“You’re special,” he says automatically.
The words hang there.
His face shifts as he hears them.
“That’s not—” he starts.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, heart doing weird aerobics. “We’ll be careful. And annoying. And extremely public.”
He relaxes a fraction. “That last part we can manage.”
As if summoned by the gossip gods, Brooke Jenkins appears with two other women flanking her like bridesmaids on patrol.
“Delaney!” she chirps. “Oh good, I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Nash mutters, “You manifested that.”
I kick him under the table.
Brooke swoops in, ponytail bouncing, eyes taking everything in—the coffee cups, our seating arrangement, the way Nash’s hand is resting on the table like it might migrate over to mine any second.
“Well,” she says, smile bright and sharp. “You two look cozy.”
I paste on my polite face. “Morning, Brooke.”
“I mean, who would’ve guessed?” she goes on. “You leaving town, talking all those years about ‘getting out’ and ‘being more than a ranch girl,’ and then you come back and you’re…” Her gaze flicks to Nash and smirks. “…right back where you started.”
There’s something bitter under the sugar.
Something old and sharp.
I feel my spine straighten. “Life’s not a one-way road,” I say. “You can go out and come back. You can be more than one thing.”
“Sure.” Brooke’s eyes glint. “Or maybe you just couldn’t hack it in the city.”
The words land like little cuts.
She has no idea—about the burned-out boss, the hospital bills, the way I stared at spreadsheets at 2 a.m. and wondered if I’d traded every part of myself that mattered for a salary and a view.
She doesn’t need to know.
Nash moves.
Not much.
Just enough that his knee bumps mine under the table and stays there. A steady pressure. An anchor.
“Delaney always could hack whatever she wanted,” he says, voice even but edged. “City. Ranch. Any room she walks into. Anybody who knew her back in school remembers that.”
Brooke laughs. “Sure. She was stubborn. That’s not the same as special.”
The old insecurity hits like a ghost hand—high school whispers, nasty notes in lockers, girls who hated me for raising my hand too much and boys who hated me for not letting them copy my homework.
Before I can respond, Nash leans forward, forearms on the table, eyes locked on Brooke.
“This town hasn’t been the same since she left,” he says quietly.
The words punch right through me.
Brooke blinks.
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He keeps his gaze on her, calm and unflinching.
“You remember what Rodeo Days was like senior year?” he asks. “Who kept it from falling apart when the main sponsor backed out? Who rounded up volunteers? Who got half the county to donate prizes so the kids’ events didn’t get canceled?”
Brooke shifts, uncomfortable. “That was—”
“That was Delaney,” he says. “She’s the reason this town has a scholarship fund big enough to matter. She’s the reason the 4H kids got to keep their trailer after the storm. She’s the reason your little cousin got to go to Ag school, if I remember right.”
Brooke’s mouth snaps shut.
A flush creeps up her neck.
The satisfaction is petty and glorious.
I stare at Nash.
He shrugs slightly. “We all leave. We all come back different. But don’t stand here and act like her coming home is some kind of failure. This place should be damn grateful.”
The other women mumble something about needing to check on someone inside. Brooke coughs out an awkward laugh, mutters, “Well, okay then,” and retreats.
We sit in the wake of it, the air around our little table humming.
My heart is in my throat.
“That was…” I start, then falter.
“Too much?” he asks, mouth twitching.
“Unexpected.”
“Untrue?”
I look down at my coffee. “No.”
“Then it stays.”
Silence falls again, this time heavier in a different way.
I fiddle with my straw. “Why haven’t you married anyone?”
He turns his head slowly, like he wasn’t expecting the question to jump from my brain to my mouth that fast.
“No easing into it, huh?” he says.
“I’m not great at easing,” I admit. “But you’re… you.” I gesture at all of him. “You’re good-looking and competent and your family’s… loud. You’ve been home for a while now. There must have been… options.”
“There were,” he says.
“And yet…” I lift my brows.
He watches me for a long heartbeat, eyes searching my face like he’s deciding how much to give.
Then he huffs out a breath and sits back.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he says.
My stomach flips. “Not to me.”
“It was always you, Laney.”
The simple honesty of it knocks the air right out of my lungs.
He holds my gaze, no flinch, no joke to soften it. “I didn’t marry anyone because I didn’t want anyone else. I tried.” A rough laugh. “Went on a couple of dates. Had some almost-somethings. But every time it got close to real, all I could think was ‘she’s not you.’ Which isn’t fair to them. Or you. Or me, if we’re counting.”