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)
“Okay,” I echo.
We’re still looking when a hand slaps the doorjamb and Penny leans in, grinning like a woman who already set the group text on fire. “Boss? Cowboy? Do I tell the crew to expect a very public display of ‘fake dating’ at the south fence or just medium public?”
Delaney groans into her palms. I can’t help it, and I let the smile happen. It feels like something I haven’t worn in a while finding its way back to my face.
“Tell ‘em,” I say, eyes on Delaney, “to expect me wherever she is.”
Penny whoops. “Copy that.”
Delaney drops her hands, cheeks flushed, chin high. “Fine,” she says, like a woman stepping into a cold creek on purpose. “Let’s go save my ranch, Hawthorne.”
“After you,” I say, because I like watching her lead.
She brushes past. Heat and honeysuckle and sweat and dust kiss my skin in her wake. The urge to reach out and catch her fingers is a live wire. I don’t. Not yet.
I follow her out into the light, wanting and ready in equal measure, the plan in my head and the promise in my chest, both of them heavy, both of them mine.
THREE
DELANEY
Fake dating is a special kind of torture, and I say that as someone who once spent four hours trapped in a cattle trailer with a goat that had opinions.
On one hand, this plan makes sense. It’s small-town camouflage. A public distraction. A way to keep Nash on the ranch without hanging a neon sign that says SABOTAGE INVESTIGATION IN PROGRESS, Y’ALL.
On the other hand…
Nash Hawthorne is not a camouflage-friendly man.
He’s a walking spotlight in a Stetson.
I wake up already tired of thinking about him.
The guest room door across the hall is shut. That should be comforting. Instead it feels like my brain has decided to camp out on the threshold with a folding chair and a megaphone.
He’s here.
He’s different.
You asked for this.
Did you, though?
I dress in jeans and a fitted tee and my oldest boots, the ones with the scuffed toes that make me feel like I’m wearing armor with a little history. When I am ninety-three and someone asks me what I did with my life, I want to say I saved this place in boots that already knew the dirt.
Downstairs, Mama is already in the kitchen pouring coffee with the kind of intentional calm that says she’s refusing to panic on principle.
“You sleep?” she asks.
“Sure,” I lie.
“I heard boots around midnight.”
I choke on my coffee.
She smiles over the rim of her mug. “Not yours.”
“Oh.”
“And I heard your father telling the Lord this morning that if he ends up with grandbabies out of a disaster plan, he will accept that as a blessing.”
“Mama.”
She just hums like she’s savoring the chaos.
“I’m going to the store,” I say, grabbing my keys out of spite.
“Good. Be polite. And try not to stab him in public.”
“Again, Mama—”
“I’m teasing.”
She is not teasing.
Outside, the sun is already loud. Texas doesn’t ease into a day. It kicks the door wide open.
Nash is by the truck, leaning a shoulder against the door with a coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. The hat is on—of course it is—and the brim cuts his eyes in shadow.
He looks like a man built to haunt women who believed in promises.
He lifts his gaze when I step onto the porch. Not a lingering sweep. Not a hungry look. Just a quick, professional check like I’m part of a perimeter he’s responsible for.
And then his mouth curves like he can’t help the second thought. “Morning, Laney.”
I tell myself my pulse is reacting to caffeine. “Morning.”
He pushes off the truck. “We’re doing the grocery run first. Town needs something to gossip about besides weather and who’s secretly on a cleanse.”
“I’m not on a cleanse,” I say automatically.
His smile deepens a fraction. “Didn’t think you were.”
Why does that sound like he remembers how I used to sneak cornbread off the cooling rack?
I climb into the passenger seat and put distance between my knees and his, purely as a matter of national security.
The drive to town is short enough to be dangerous.
Valor Springs blurs past the windows in familiar slices: the feed store with the sun-faded sign, the diner that still smells like cinnamon even from the parking lot, the church with the white steeple that’s been repainted so many times it might collapse from kindness.
Nash doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t need to. The presence of him fills space like storm pressure. I can feel the weight of his attention even when he’s watching the road.
“There’s a list,” he says finally, tapping the folded paper my mother handed him like he’s been in possession of a grocery list long enough to develop feelings about it. “Your mother wants me to verify the brand of flour because apparently there’s a scandal.”