I pull back slightly, blinking.
A woman with a phone is standing a few feet away, pretending to check her notifications like she didn’t just capture the exact second my world tilted on her phone.
Nash notices too. His jaw tightens, and he lowers his hand slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry. I usually don’t…”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though my heart is racing. Not from the kiss.
From the fallout. Because I’ve lived this before. And I know how fast one photo can turn everything sideways.
“Want to get out of here?” Nash asks, his voice low, his eyes cutting briefly to a table near the dance floor.
A group of women are watching us. Some whispering, one very obviously not hiding the fact she’s zooming in on her phone.
My stomach twists.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening the strap of my dress. “Let’s go.”
We weave through the crowd without saying much, his hand lightly touching the small of my back as we move. There’s nothing aggressive about it. Just a quiet anchor. A check-in.
Once we’re outside, the night air hits like a sigh. It’s cooler now, the sky velvet-dark, streetlamps casting long golden pools on the pavement. The music behind us fades into a muffled thrum.
Nash opens the passenger door of his truck for me without a word, and I slide in, heart still pounding. Not from the kiss. From what it means.
When he gets in and shuts the door, the quiet feels thicker. Not awkward. Just full.
He doesn’t start the engine right away.
“Sorry,” he says, glancing over at me. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene in there.”
“You didn’t.” I shake my head. “That woman did.”
“She’s a buckle bunny,” he mutters, jaw tight. “Been chasing me for a while and can’t seem to take a hint.”
My lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Guess it’s nice to know I look kissable in poor lighting.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “You’d look kissable in a tornado.”
That earns a laugh from me, and just like that, the tension breaks.
I look out the window for a beat, then back at him. “You want to come in? For a drink?”
He studies me. Not just my face but me. Like he’s giving me the chance to take it back.
I don’t.
“I’d like that,” he says, voice low.
It starts with a ping.
Then another.
By the time we get back to the hotel, my phone is lighting up with notifications like it’s on fire. Mentions, messages, tags. Nash’s phone is doing the same.
He grimaces as he comes to a stop in the lobby. “I need to take this. It’s my daughter.” A moment later he answers, “Hey sweetheart.”
I step away to give him privacy. And to check my own phone. When I glance down at the screen I freeze.
