“You told me you were afraid of the dark,” he said. “And I told you?—”
“That the stars were like God’s nightlights,” she finished, eyes widening. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything about you,” Nash admitted, the words escaping before he could check them.
The confession hung in the air between them, too honest to take back. Amy’s eyes searched his, perhaps looking for any sign that he was exaggerating or being flippant.
He suddenly stood, breaking the tension. “Let’s get to bed. And we’ll drive up to Olympus tomorrow.”
“Okay. Hopefully I can walk.”
He looked down at her injured ankle. “Even if I have to carry you everywhere.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she challenged.
“Try me, Amy,” he said, purposely using her real name, watching as her eyes widened slightly. “I’ve carried half-grown calves farther than I’d have to carry you up that mountain.”
“Are you comparing me to a cow?” She raised an eyebrow, but he could see the smile she was trying to hide.
“Nope.” Nash grinned. “Cows are much more cooperative.”
The pillow she threw hit him square in the chest, and Nash laughed, feeling lighter than he had in years despite the danger surrounding them.
“The guest room is down the hall on the right,” he said, gesturing. “There are towels in the bathroom closet, and I put some of Cheyenne’s clothes she left here on the bed. They might be a little big, but they’ll work for pajamas.”
“Thank you,” Amy said, starting to push herself up from the couch.
Nash stepped forward automatically to help her.
She waved him off. “I can manage. It’s feeling a little better.” She took a tentative step, wincing slightly but not collapsing. Progress. She made it halfway to the hallway before turning back. “Nash?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything. I know this wasn’t how you planned to spend your time.”
He could hear the vulnerability in her voice, see it in the way she held herself—slightly defensive, as if preparing for rejection. It made something in his chest ache.
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” he answered honestly.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, smiling softly at him. “Good night, Nash.”
“Good night, Amy.”
He watched her disappear down the hallway, then moved to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. As he loaded the dishwasher, his phone buzzed with a text from Brooks.
Found something interesting about Olympus Foundation. Call me first thing tomorrow.
Nash typed back a quick acknowledgment, mind already racing with possibilities. Tomorrow they would head up the mountain, injured ankle or not. They were getting closer—he could feel it.
He secured the house, checking locks and setting the alarm system before heading to his own bedroom. As he changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, he couldn’t help glancing down the hall toward the guest room. A thin line of light shone under the door. Was she still awake? Was she thinking about him the way he was thinking about her?
Tomorrow they would face whatever was waiting on Mount Olympus, but tonight … tonight they had found something they’d both thought was lost forever. And Nash wasn’t about to let it slip away again.
CHAPTER 8
Amy had spent her whole life memorizing details. When you lived in witness protection, details meant survival. Which neighbor had a dog that barked at strangers. Which store clerks asked too many questions. Which routes home had the fewest traffic cameras.
So as Nash drove them up toward Mount Olympus, her eyes scanned every inch of the passing landscape, committing it all to memory. The truck’s heater hummed quietly, warming her legs while the crisp mountain air streamed through Nash’s cracked window. He’d insisted on the fresh air—apparently a ranch boy habit—despite the April morning chill.
