“The kissing part.” She felt her cheeks warm, but pressed on. “Nash, I?—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted gently. “I know this is complicated. You’re in witness protection. We’re hunting gold that might be connected to the people who killed your father. My family is involved. Your job is at risk.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “But I meant what I said yesterday. I’d like to try—really try—with you. If you want that too.”
Amy looked at their hands, his larger one covering hers, and felt a sense of rightness that terrified her. “I do,” she admitted softly. “But it scares me.”
“Me too,” Nash confided, surprising her. “But some things are worth being scared for.”
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, Amy felt as though they were the only two people in the world—no gold, no Ferrantes, no witness protection, just Nash and Amy and this fragile, beautiful thing growing between them.
“I should get ready for church,” she said finally, not trusting herself to say more.
Nash smiled, understanding in his eyes. “I’ll clean up while you change.”
Forty minutes later,they were in Nash’s truck, headed toward a modest church building in a quiet Salt Lake neighborhood. Amy smoothed the green dress over her knees, feeling strangely nervous.
“You look beautiful,” Nash said, glancing at her as he drove. “Green really is your color.”
She smiled, pleased by the compliment. “Thanks for letting me borrow the dress. Does your sister leave clothes at your place often?”
Nash chuckled. “All my siblings leave stuff here. When you’re the only one in the family who lives away from the ranch, you become the designated Salt Lake crash pad.” His expression softened. “Not that I mind. I miss them, honestly.”
Amy studied his profile, struck by the tenderness in his voice when he spoke of his family. “Catch me up on them,” she prompted.
Nash grinned. “Well, Porter’s the oldest—he runs the ranch now. He’s married to Sadie, which is funny, considering …” He glanced at her, then continued. “They have a little girl named Arkansas.”
“Arkansas?” Amy couldn’t help but laugh. “Like the state?”
“Yep. But they call her Little Rock for short. Colt’s next—he’s our cattle operations guy. Married to Sierra, who’s the town doctor. Then there’s Blaze, the vet. He married Eden last year—she’s an artist. And Chance is our sheriff, married to Kelly, who does pottery.” His smile grew impossibly fond. “And Cheyenne’s the baby of the family. Well, not a baby anymore. I told you she just married Micah Jamison—Trey Stone’s stepson.”
The warmth in his voice as he described his siblings made Amy’s chest ache with a mixture of happiness for him and a deep, personal longing. “They sound wonderful,” she said sincerely.
Nash nodded, pulling into the church parking lot. “They are. Annoying as hell sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” He put the truck in park and turned to her. “Ready?”
Amy took a deep breath. “Ready.”
Nash came around to her side, opening the door and offering his hand to help her down. His fingers interlaced with hers naturally, and they walked into the church hand in hand.
The service was already filling with people, families settling into pews, friends greeting each other with smiles and handshakes. Amy felt a momentary pang of anxiety—she’d grown accustomed to anonymity, to blending in and being overlooked. But with Nash beside her, his hand warm in hers, she found herself relaxing.
Several people greeted Nash by name, their curious glances at Amy poorly disguised. Nash introduced her simply as Sadie, his tone warm with affection, and she found herself slipping seamlessly into the role—not just his pretend girlfriend, but someone who belonged at his side.
They settled into a pew near the middle, Nash’s thumb absently stroking the back of her hand as the worship music began.
Amy let the familiar rhythms of the service wash over her, finding comfort in rituals she’d nearly forgotten. Nash sang beside her, his deep voice blending with the congregation’s, and Amy found herself singing too, the words returning as if they’d never left.
Midway through the sermon, which focused on Jesus’ sacrifice and unconditional love, Nash’s phone vibrated. He discreetly checked it, frowned slightly, then put it away. A few minutes later, it vibrated again. And again.
After the fifth text, Amy leaned over and whispered, “Everything okay?”
Nash nodded, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Just my family,” he whispered back. “I’ll talk to them after church.”
His attention returned to the pastor, who was speaking passionately about redemption and second chances.
Amy found herself unexpectedly moved by the message, by the pastor’s emphasis on how God’s love could transform even the most broken paths into something beautiful.
“‘Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!’” the pastor said, quoting from 2 Corinthians. “That means your past doesn’t define you. Your mistakes, your pain, your regrets—they’re not who you are anymore.”
Amy felt tears prick at her eyes, and Nash’s hand tightened around hers as if he sensed her emotion. Her past had defined her for so long—shaped her choices, dictated her movements, determined her identity. The idea that she could be something new, something undefined by fear and loss, felt simultaneously terrifying and liberating.
