When we reach the truck, he opens my door for me, jaw clenched.
I climb in and watch him circle to the driver’s side, every line of his body humming with barely contained fury.
He slides behind the wheel, starts the engine, and pulls out of the lot without a word.
We drive in silence for a full minute. The town lights fade behind us. The road stretches ahead, dark and familiar.
“Thank you,” I say finally.
He glances at me, confusion cutting through the anger. “For what?”
“For not hitting him.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Wasn’t for lack of desire.”
“I noticed.”
His hands flex on the wheel. “Nobody talks to you like that.”
“He’s always talked to me like that,” I say. “He just used to be subtle about it.”
“Then I should’ve hit him in high school.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re not my personal enforcer, Nash.”
“Too late.”
The words come out before he can catch them.
We both hear them.
We both feel the shift.
The truck rumbles down the dark road. The ranch rises up ahead of us like a promise and a dare. Somewhere out there, old secrets are stirring. Somewhere out there, someone is cutting wire and playing games with our land, our livelihood, our history.
Beside me, Nash Hawthorne is a storm I once loved and then had to survive.
Now I’m asking him to help me weather a different kind of damage.
And the scariest part?
I’m not sure which threat is worse: The careful saboteur stalking our fences— or the way my heart is starting to believe that this fake dating thing might not be fake at all.
EIGHT
NASH
By the time we pull into the driveway, my jaw hurts from clenching. I kill the engine and sit for half a second, fingers tight on the wheel. The porch light glows like a lighthouse, the rest of the ranch spread out behind it in dark shapes and shadows.
“Sorry,” Delaney says quietly.
“For what?”
“For Kyle being the human embodiment of a tax audit.”
A laugh punches out of me despite everything. “You didn’t invite him into existence.”
“Still feel responsible,” she mutters, then looks over at me. “You okay?”
