But Nash doesn’t. He shifts the conversation entirely, like he knows.
“My daughter really likes his songs. Of course, she also likes Taylor Swift.”
“You have a daughter? How old is she?”
His whole face transforms into what can only be described as light.
“Yeah. Natalie. She’s twelve, going on thirty. Everything I wished I could be at that age. Smart. Adventurous. Knows just what she wants out of life.”
There’s no hesitation. No shame. Just love.
“More adventurous than a bronc rider?” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “That’s impressive.”
He grins. “Bronc riding is just an adrenaline hit. Natalie does high diving. Off real platforms. I go watch her and get vertigo just looking up.”
I laugh, genuinely. “Yeah, that’s a no from me. Heights are where I draw the line.”
“She says the same thing about bulls and horses,” he adds. “Tells me I’m nuts for climbing on animals bred to throw me off.”
“She’s got a point.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
The conversation flows so easily I almost forget we’ve just met. There’s something disarming about Nash. Like he means what he says and doesn’t hide behind it. And sitting beside him in that truck, listening to him talk about his kid like she hung the moon? It makes me wonder if I’ve been measuring men against all the wrong things.
The steakhouse is tucked just off the main drag in the Fort Worth Stockyards. Brick exterior, rustic wood beams, the kind of place where the waitstaff calls you honey, and the steak knives look like they could gut a wild hog. The hostess knows Nash by name and leads us to a private corner booth near the window, all warm amber light and clinking glassware. The smells—seared meat, garlic butter, something sweet on the grill—wrap around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.
Over dinner, the conversation never stumbles. He asks about my writing. Not just what I’m working on, but what I want to write. What stories light me up. What I’d do if there were no limits.
“No one’s ever asked me that,” I admit around a bite of perfectly medium-rare ribeye.
“Maybe they should’ve,” he says, looking at me like I’m a question he wants to learn by heart.
He tells me about the hardest bronc he ever rode and the worst fall he ever took. About growing up in a house full of brothers, where competition was baked into the walls, and how Natalie changed everything.
“She made me braver,” he says, his voice softening. “Not in the arena. But in life.”
There’s a stillness in that moment. A quiet kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for anything but lingers in the space between words.
When we finish our meal, he insists on paying, waving off my half-hearted protest with a wink. “You got the quote. Let me get the steak.”
We step back out into the warm night air, the sky dusted with stars and the low hum of music drifting from a nearby bar. People spill out into the street, boots tapping against the pavement, laughter echoing from the open doors.
Nash glances over, then back at me. “You ever go two-stepping?”
I lift a brow. “You asking if I know how, or if I’m willing?”
He grins. “I’m asking if you’ll let me spin you around the floor for a song or two.”
I laugh, my heart light for the first time in what feels like forever. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you any good?”
He leans in just enough that I feel the heat of his breath when he says, low and easy, “Guess you’ll have to come find out.”
I don’t even hesitate. “Let’s dance.”
