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)
But the second I walked away, something in my chest started tearing at the bars.
Because agreeing in the barn felt like putting my mouth to a lie and drinking it down.
I told her, mission first.
I meant it. I still do.
But I’m not built to pretend I don’t feel something when it’s clawing its way through my ribs. I did that overseas—shoved everything down until it became a hard knot I carried like extra gear. It kept me alive. It didn’t make me whole.
And Delaney… Delaney makes me want whole.
I push up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet find the floor without a sound. I sit there for a beat, elbows on my knees, head bowed, breathing through it like it’s a craving.
Don’t.
That’s the responsible voice.
You promised.
That’s the honorable one.
And then there’s the other voice—the one that never shut up, not once, not when I was half a world away and trying to forget what her laugh sounded like.
Go to her.
I scrub a hand down my face and stand.
The hallway is dim, lit by the small lamp Mrs. Coleman leaves on like she’s warding off bad dreams. I pad across the worn floorboards, shoulders loose, senses sharp. Habit. Training. Fear.
I stop outside Delaney’s door.
My heart stutters like a rookie.
Which is embarrassing. I’ve stared down things that would turn most men white. I’ve kept my composure when the world was coming apart in smoke and metal and screaming.
But a closed door and a girl I’ve loved since I was twelve?
I lift my hand and hover.
If I knock, there’s no un-knocking.
If she opens the door, everything changes.
My knuckles tap the wood anyway—soft, but sure.
Silence. A breath. The faint slide of bare feet.
The latch clicks.
Delaney opens the door a crack, then wider when she sees it’s me.
She’s in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair loose and thick and dark around her face. No mascara. No armor. Just her, soft in the lamplight, eyes wide with sleep and confusion and something that looks like she’s been thinking too.
“Nash?” she whispers. “Is something wrong?”
My throat tightens. My voice comes out low, rough, honest. “Yeah,” I say. “Me.”
Her fingers curl around the door edge, knuckles pale for a second. “We said—”
“I know what we said.” I take a breath, steady myself like I’m stepping onto a wire. “And I meant it. I still mean it. But I also…” My gaze flicks to her mouth and back to her eyes. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t exist.”
Her swallow is visible. She’s nervous. So am I.
I step closer—slow. No pressure. Giving her every chance to shut the door in my face and save us both from the fallout.
She doesn’t move.
So I cross the threshold, careful, and ease the door shut behind me. The click is quiet, but it sounds like a decision.
Her room smells like her—clean soap and warm sheets and a hint of old paper, like she’s got books tucked into the corners of her life no matter where she goes. It’s the kind of scent that gets into a man’s lungs and makes him want to stay.
Delaney stands with her back to the door now, chin tipped up even as her shoulders tense. “Talk to me,” she says, voice soft but stubborn. “What is this?”
I take a step closer. Another. I stop an arm’s length away. “This is me being done with the pretending,” I say. “We agreed in the barn we couldn’t act on it. That we had to keep it clean. Professional. For the ranch.” I exhale, slow and heavy. “I walked away thinking I could do that. Thinking I could just… lock it down the way I lock everything down.”
Her brows knit, conflict flickering across her face. “And now?” she asks.
“Now I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words scrape out of me like they’ve been caught behind my teeth for years. “Not the cover story. Not the show. You. The real you.”
Her eyes shine like she hates that.
I keep going anyway, because I didn’t come here to half-ass it. “I’ve wanted you for years, Laney,” I whisper. “Not in some vague, nostalgic way. In the way that kept me alive on nights I didn’t want to be alive.” I swallow hard. “I tried to kill it. I tried to move on. I tried to date other women like that would rewrite the part of me you’re carved into.”
Her breath catches.
“It didn’t,” I say. “It never did.”
She lifts a hand like she might stop me, then hesitates. Her fingers hover in the space between us, trembling.
“You’re scared,” she murmurs, like she can read the pulse in my throat.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Because I know what it’s like to ruin something good. And I know this ranch is under threat. And I know the timing is trash.” A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “But I also know I’m tired of living like the only thing I’m allowed to feel is control.”