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)
That’s my answer.
He kisses me slowly at first—deep, warm, morning-soft. Then he breathes out against my lips like he’s losing the last of his control, and the kiss turns hungry without turning reckless. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, holding me like I’m something he’s been missing and found again.
I kiss him back like I’m trying to make up for ten years of distance with one morning.
We break apart only because lungs are required.
I stare up at him, lips swollen, heartbeat loud, and try to file this moment away somewhere permanent.
“We should get up,” I whisper.
He stares down, a slow smile spreading. “Oh, I’m definitely up.”
I laugh—quiet, disbelieving.
He drops a kiss to the tip of my nose. “That sound… I missed that sound.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t get to say sweet things at 8 a.m. like you didn’t emotionally devastate me for most of my twenties.”
His smile goes crooked, regret flickering. “Fair.”
Then he kisses me again, and the argument evaporates into heat.
We’re halfway into another round of kissing—hands roaming in ways that make my brain short out—when Nash goes still.
Not stiff. Alert.
His head tilts slightly, listening.
I freeze too, suddenly aware of the house beyond my room. The hallway. The kitchen. My mother’s Jedi hearing.
“What?” I whisper.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, but his eyes sharpen. “Just checking. Old habit.”
Of course it is.
He kisses my forehead like an apology, then pulls back with a reluctant exhale. “We should get up.”
I groan. “I hate responsible decisions.”
He slides off the bed, offers me his hand like I’m a lady and not a woman who just tried to climb him like a tree.
“Rodeo Days is soon,” he says, voice calm but amused. “You’re the only person in this county capable of making a vendor list behave.”
I take his hand and let him pull me up, because I’m apparently choosing softness today.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m doing it in a terrible mood.”
He lifts a brow. “Liar.”
I dress fast—jeans, boots, a tee that says COLEMAN RANCH in cracked lettering. Nash disappears to his room across the hall and comes back looking unfairly put together in about thirty seconds. He glances at my door as if to make sure it’s shut behind us, then walks with me down the stairs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It is.
That’s the scary part.
In the kitchen, Mama is already at the counter with her coffee.
She looks up.
She looks at Nash.
She looks at me.
Then she takes a long sip like she’s tasting a new reality.
“Well,” she says pleasantly, “good morning.”
I choke.
Nash clears his throat and becomes very interested in the coffee pot. “Morning, ma’am,” he says, a little too polite.
Mama’s eyes twinkle. “Sleep alright?”
I glare at her. “Mama.”
“What?” she asks innocently. “I’m just a mother. Concerned for… everyone’s rest.”
Nash’s ears turn pink again. It’s my favorite thing.
“We’re headed into town,” I announce, loudly, like if I speak in a big voice this conversation can’t follow me. “Rodeo Days stuff.”
Mama pats my cheek as we pass. “Be safe. Be smart. And for the love of the Lord, don’t get caught making out behind the cotton candy booth.”
“MAMA.”
Nash’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as he follows me out the door.
“I am never going to recover,” I mutter.
“You will,” he says. “Your mom likes me.”
“She likes everybody who eats her biscuits and doesn’t lie to her face. The bar is low.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says, and squeezes my hand.
And just like that, the tension drains out of me again.
Town feels different today.
Maybe because the sunlight is brighter. Maybe because my mouth still tastes like Nash. Maybe because the secret between us isn’t a secret anymore—at least not the part the town sees.
People wave. People grin. People stare like they’re trying to figure out if this is real or just a storyline.
We go to the community center first, where Rodeo Days planning lives in a chaotic stack of clipboards and flyers. I pull out my binder—yes, I have a binder, no, you can’t judge me—and start calling vendors.
BBQ truck? Confirmed.
Funnel cakes? Confirmed.
Craft booth row? Mostly confirmed, except Mrs. Landry thinks her booth needs to be “more central to foot traffic” like she’s a Fortune 500 company.
Nash follows along like a shadow with a sense of humor, leaning against doorframes, checking windows, scanning the parking lot, and making the occasional dry comment that almost makes me spit my iced tea.
When the cotton candy vendor cancels, I groan and thump my forehead against my binder.
Nash taps the page. “Call the guy from Stone Hollow. The one with the trailer shaped like a pig.”
“How do you know about the pig trailer?”
He shrugs. “I pay attention.”
It shouldn’t make my chest warm.
It does.
I call. He’s available. Crisis averted.
At lunch, we grab tacos from the food truck by the courthouse. Nash makes me laugh so hard I snort, and I’m not even embarrassed until I realize the deputy at the next picnic table is staring like he just witnessed a miracle.