We settle into a shady corner table beneath a giant oak tree, the kind with thick limbs that bend like old knees and cicadas humming somewhere nearby. The scent of smoked meat and syrup wafts on the breeze, and for a while, everything feels normal.
I sip my mimosa, legs stretched out under the table, and ask, “Be honest. Do you regret kissing me in public?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Not even a little.”
Heat curls under my skin. “You might after the next wave of headlines.”
“Then I’ll kiss you somewhere private next time,” he says, and takes a bite of his biscuit like he didn’t just casually threaten to ruin me in the most charming way possible.
I laugh, trying not to choke on my mimosa.
We’re halfway through our plates when it happens. Thatclick. That subtle shift in the air. And suddenly I know. I glance across the patio and spot a woman with a camera phone held just a little too steady. Another one across the street behind a tinted pair of sunglasses.
And then a sound I dread. The hum of a notification.
I flip my phone over and watch the push alert bloom across the screen.
@BuckleBabeBuzz: Brunch date for Nash and Phern! After last night’s steamy kiss, these two are keeping it cute and caffeinated. But sources say former rodeo star and Sam Stone’s BFF, Will Flowers, is staying at the same hotel…
My stomach turns.
Nash catches the look on my face and leans in. “What is it?”
I show him.
He reads it. “Of course they’re turning it into a rodeo soap opera.”
“And you’re the hot, emotionally available single dad.”
“And you’re the scandal-prone sister of a country star.”
We sit in it for a moment, our own faces staring back at us from someone else’s narrative. And then we laugh. It feels good to laugh.
Nash sighs, wipes his hands, and leans back in his chair. “You want to bail?”
“No,” I say. “I want to finish my grits.”
But after the third passerby not-so-subtly angles their phone toward our table, Nash leans in, voice low.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, already grabbing my purse. “Please.”
We slip out the back entrance, duck through an alley, and end up in a little downtown park with a half-hidden gazebo. It’s shaded and quiet, framed by trees that block out most of the street noise. There’s no one here. Just us. And birdsong. And the hum of tension that’s been building since last night.
He sits on the edge of the low stone wall surrounding the space, knees wide, elbows resting on his thighs. I stand in front of him, and for a second, neither of us says anything.
Then he reaches up and takes my hand, pulling me gently between his legs, his eyes locked on mine.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit.
He nods, like he gets it. Like he’s not either.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not hurried. It’s not for the cameras. It’s just for us. His lips are soft, sure, and the hand that cups my jaw is warm and callused in the best way. But the thing that kills me is that it’s not Will.
