1
NACHO
The sun’s just coming up over the Central Texas Hill Country, and it’s going to be another glorious blue-sky day. I check the rearview mirror as I hit my blinker and catch the teardrop tattoo just under my left eye. Days like these remind me of how far I’ve come and how lucky I am to have a good job with good people.
Turning into Wild Heart Ranch, I pull up in front of the bunkhouse to pick up my buddy, Ant. Everyone here is already up and moving about, so I hit the horn twice. When the front door opens several minutes later, I hang my head out the window, ready to chirp at him to hurry his sleepy ass up.
Huh. That’s not Ant.
It’s Dr. Barlowe, my prison therapist.
He’s just Bram now.
I served only one year of a two-year prison sentence, and he’s responsible for my early release.
No, Ignacio. You were a good boy and earned that early release all on your own.
I imagine his velvet baritone in my ear, and my heart starts pumping a fucking cumbia on speed. I yank my head back into the truck, knocking it against the window frame, hoping the early-morning shadows hide me from his view.
His eyes, however, don’t miss a single detail. Some things never change, I suppose. He shoves his hands in his pockets and approaches my window.
“Ignacio.”
He’s the only person who’s ever called me by my given name. Even my mother calls me Nacho.
“Dr. Barlowe,” I respond automatically.
I curse at how quickly this…dynamic…slips into place between us. In my head, he’s Bram and I’m Nacho, but the sound of my given name on his lips feels like I’ve broken sobriety. I’m high on the rumbling, perfect sound on his tongue, and I can’t help but call him what I always have.
Mostly I’m just hoping I don’t sound like a breathless teenager. That’s probably a lost cause because, even this early, Bram is clean-shaven and perfectly coiffed. He’s wearing pressed slacks with a starched button-down that strains across his brawny muscles. Even his sleeves are precisely rolled, revealing cabled forearms covered in gorgeous tattoos.
It’s so unfair—he looks as if someone went and mixed the DNA of Clark Kent and David Beckham in a lab, then added a sprinkle of genius Dom on top for extra spice. I thought I’d cornered the market on stylish and inked, but he’s got me by a cool mile.
Also, I’m pretty sure that’s Tom Ford cologne on freshly washed skin wafting into the cab of my work truck.
“You hit your head,” he says, reaching through the window.
He carefully rakes his blunt fingers through my hair, and his touch sends electricity cascading down my neck and out through my fingertips. Wincing, I grab his wrist when he passes over the spot where my skull made contact with the window frame.
“I’m fine, Dr. Barlowe. I promise.”
His eyes fall to my hand on his wrist, and I let go as he pulls away, crossing his arms.
The sun clears the horizon, highlighting the strength in his tattooed arms. I run a quick hand through my hair to ensure I’m somewhat presentable.
His eyes track my inked fingers, and a heated silence passes between us.
“Is something wrong with Ant?” I ask, needing to say something to break the spell.
He blinks, distracted. “Uh…he’ll be fine, but he got some news that upset him, and he’s going to need a minute to put himself back together. I decided it’s best if I come out and let you know what’s going on.”
“Oh.” I’m a little thrown, so I go for humor. “Don’t be coy, Dr. Barlowe. Tell me.”
His eyes flick to my lips as he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s not bad news. It’s just—Charlie and Justin went to Vegas this weekend and got married. Ant just found out, and he’s kinda upset.”
Wait…what?
“That’swhere they went?”
