His mouth kicks up.
We hit the checkout line right as two of the ranch wives and one of my old high school classmates appear on the opposite end of the aisle like sharks scented blood in the water.
Nash reaches into the cart, pulls out a pack of gum, and drops it on the belt.
Then he leans in and murmurs near my ear, “We should probably sell this.”
“What?”
“This.” He flicks his gaze toward the unofficial welcome committee. “You want them convinced? Give them a reason to be.”
I swallow. “We’re not?—”
“I know.” His voice lowers. “But they don’t.” He turns me slightly by the elbow—gentle, but sure—and brushes a kiss to my temple.
It’s brief. An illusion. A performance.
It still sends a hot, electric line straight down my spine like my body doesn’t recognize the difference between fake and familiar.
The women gasp.
One of them beams like Christmas came early.
I stare at the gum display and focus on breathing.
“Okay,” I mutter when we’re outside again. “Point made. Your method is… effective.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
He gives me a look that says he has seen worse lies in harder places and survived them.
“I’m fine,” I say softer.
He nods like he’s honoring the line I’m drawing. “Fence next.”
I hate how grateful I am for the subject change.
Back at the ranch, the south fence looks like a mouth with missing teeth. The repair crew is already there, but Gray’s instructions were clear:visibility matters.
So I grab gloves and a toolbox while Nash checks the line, eyes scanning the horizon like he expects the wind to try something.
We work side by side in the sun. Hammering staples. Tensioning wire. Replacing a post that snapped clean at the base. Therhythm of physical labor steadies me—the simple truth of it. You fix what breaks. You keep going.
“Your hands still know what they’re doing,” Nash says after I loop wire with practiced efficiency.
“City didn’t erase me.”
“No.” His voice is low. “It didn’t.”
I glance at him, surprised by the softness I catch there.
The last time we saw each other?—
I don’t let my mind finish the sentence.
I don’t let it walk toward that half-remembered night when everything almost tipped intoyesand then something else happened. Something sharp enough that time hasn’t dulled it yet. The details are a locked drawer in my chest. I can’t open it while I’m trying to hold this ranch together.
