I don’t give it to him. I just turn and walk away, pulse still racing from Tish’s words or from the way Will’s eyes lingered a little too long. I’m not sure.
At the hotel, I toss my phone onto the bathroom counter, cue up my favorite getting-ready playlist, and step into the shower. I take my time, letting the hot water work some of the tension out of my shoulders. Shaving every inch like I’m prepping for battle. Or maybe for a kiss I won’t regret this time.
Afterward, I towel off and plug in my straightener, watching steam rise as I run it through my dark waves, smoothing them into sleek, glossy perfection. My make-up is soft but flirty. A smoky eye, just enough shimmer, and a lip color that walks the line between innocent and absolutely not.
And then I slip into the little black dress I packed last-minute, more out of stubborn hope than real expectation. It hugs in all the right places. My reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed and flushed. I grab my black fringe boots and step into them like armor.
Then I pick up my phone. Flip the camera. Snap the pics.
Tish Garcia
How do I look?
Like you’re about to ruin a man’s life. In the best way possible.
I step out of the bathroom, still adjusting one of my earrings, and come to a dead stop.
Will’s there, sprawled out on one side of the bed like it’shis. Phone in hand, boots kicked off, utterly at home. I’d forgotten, for one stupid second, that we’re sharing this room.
He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, everything in him goes still. His gaze drags over me, slow and unfiltered. His phone lowers. His lips part.
“You look good, Phern. Real good.” He shifts, sitting up. “We got plans I don’t know about?”
My pulse thunders, but I keep my expression neutral. “No.”
“Then why are you dressed up like that?”
“Like what?”
His eyes darken, his voice dipping low. “Like a walking wet dream.”
The air thickens between us. His words hang there, undeniable, heavy, and charged. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and for a second, I almost forget the comeback sitting on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m going out,” I say finally. “With Nash Kimzey.”
10
That name lands like a strike of lightning. Will doesn’t move, but something in his jaw tightens, sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’ll be back later.”
Am I being a coward? Maybe.
I hurry from the room, and arrive to the lobby of the hotel just as Nash is walking in. And holy moly. He’s dressed head to toe in black. Fitted dress shirt, dark jeans, boots so polished they catch the light, and that black Stetson tilted just enough to look dangerous.
“You look beautiful, Phern,” he says, his eyes dragging down my body with unashamed appreciation.
Heat rises up my neck, but I don’t look away. I just smile and take his outstretched hand, letting him lead me outside to where his truck is already rumbling at the curb. It's sleek, spotless, and smells faintly of leather and cologne when I slide inside. The ride to the restaurant is easy. Windows down, Texas breeze warm against my skin. We pass neon-lit honkytonks, saddle shops, and tourists crowding the sidewalks, and it all feels strangely electric.
Then one of Sam’s songs comes on the radio and I snort, shaking my head.
“That’s your brother, right?” Nash asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” I say, still grinning.
“I’ve met him before. He’s a nice guy,” Nash says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
There’s a beat. A pause long enough for my chest to tighten. There’s always that moment where I wait to see if someone’s going to start talking about Sam Stone, country music star, heartbreaker, billboard fixture. Brandon used to talk about Sam like he was the prize and I was just the plus one.
