Nash braces a new post while I tamp the dirt around it. We’re close. Too close. Our shoulders brush. A bead of sweat slides down the column of his throat and disappears into the collar of his shirt like a sin.
I hate my brain.
I hate my heart.
I especially hate the part of me that still knows his body language like an old song.
“You always did work mad,” he says.
“I’m not mad.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m focused.”
He hums a quiet laugh. “You’re still bad at lying.”
I plant my shovel harder than necessary.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re going to dig to the center of Texas.”
“Maybe I’ll find your common sense down there.”
“Probably buried under your pride.”
I whip a glare at him—and catch the flicker in his eyes that looks like heat restrained by discipline.
We both go still.
There are moments when the past is just a story. And then there are moments when it shows up in the flesh, in the sun, with a belt buckle and a heartbeat, and you realize you never really outran it.
Nash steps closer to adjust the post. His forearm brushes mine. A simple contact. Innocent. The electricity between us is not. He pauses, jaw ticking once like he’s arguing with something internal.
I should step back.
I don’t.
“Delaney,” he says quietly.
“Don’t,” I whisper, and I’m not sure if I mean don’t touch me, don’t look at me like that, or don’t make me remember how hoping for you felt.
His hand comes up anyway—not to my face, not to my waist. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear with a gentleness that feels like a confession.
“May need to practice,” he says, voice rough. “If we’re selling this.”
My breath stutters. I give him a look that’s equal parts warning and surrender. “Practice makes problems,” I say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But it also makes it believable.”
Across the yard, one of the ranch hands whistles softly.
Somebody laughs.
The audience is here, whether I like it or not.
I take a step back and force a smile that looks real if you don’t know me well. “Then let’s be believable,” I say.
He studies me for a beat like he can see the tremor under my shininess. “Copy that, sweetheart.”
