The music spills into the street as we approach the dancehall. It’s upbeat country with a fast tempo, something about whiskey and bad decisions. The wooden floors inside are worn smooth by a thousand boots before ours, and the air smells like spilled beer, old stories, and warm cologne.
Nash doesn’t ask.
He just takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor.
The band shifts into a two-step beat, and suddenly, we’re moving. His palm firm at the small of my back, his other hand cradling mine like it belongs there. I let him lead, my body falling into rhythm with his easily, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
He spins me once, and I laugh. His grin is wide, teeth white against the dark of his beard-shadowed jaw, and I swear every woman in the place just turned to look.
But he’s only looking at me.
“Not bad, Stone,” he says, pulling me back in close.
“You either, Kimzey,” I shoot back, breath catching when our chests nearly touch.
The song winds down, and the band’s frontman says something about “slowing it down for the lovers out there tonight.” The next notes are soft, low, something old and honey-sweet with a steel guitar lacing through it.
I expect Nash to step back. Give me the out.
But he doesn’t.
He just lifts our joined hands, steps forward, and pulls me flush against him. My breath catches. We sway, chest to chest, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders. His hand at my lower back isn’t pushy, like he could hold me like this all night. It’s quiet between us now, but not awkward. Not stiff. Just the kind of quiet that makes you feel seen.
His thumb brushes lazy circles against the curve of my waist.
“You look good in my arms,” he murmurs, just above the music.
I tilt my head to look up at him. “You rehearse that?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
I smile, biting my bottom lip. “No. I’d still like it.”
We keep dancing, the space between us nonexistent, our steps slow and easy. And for a moment, everything else fades. The dust of Broken Heart Creek, the ache of Will’s name in my chest, the chaos of wanting too much and never asking for enough.
Here, with Nash? It’s simple. Not because it’s empty but because it doesn’t come with strings wound too tight they choke.Just warmth. And the feeling of something that could grow into more.
When the song fades out, we don’t move. Not at first.
We’re still standing there, pressed together, our hands still where the music left them. His at the small of my back, mine curled against his chest like my body forgot it ever belonged anywhere else.
Nash tilts his head, just slightly. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Phern.”
It’s not a question. It’s a warning. And an invitation. I don’t say anything. I just rise onto my toes, my fingers tightening in his shirt.
And when he kisses me?—
It’s slow. Like he’s tasting the possibility. His lips are warm and certain, not rushed, not hungry. Like he’s been thinking about it since the moment I stepped into the lobby in that black dress and now he’s finally letting himself have it.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got. Just enough heat to hint at what’s waiting underneath, just enough softness to make it linger. His hand curves around the side of my neck, pulling me just a little closer, deepening it for a breathless, perfect moment. The room falls away. All I feel is this.
But I hear someone whisper, “Is that Nash Kimzey?”
And then—click.
Close. Too close.
