My throat tightens. My voice comes out low, rough, honest. “Yeah,” I say. “Me.”
Her fingers curl around the door edge, knuckles pale for a second. “We said?—”
“I know what we said.” I take a breath, steady myself like I’m stepping onto a wire. “And I meant it. I still mean it. But I also…” My gaze flicks to her mouth and back to her eyes. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t exist.”
Her swallow is visible. She’s nervous. So am I.
I step closer—slow. No pressure. Giving her every chance to shut the door in my face and save us both from the fallout.
She doesn’t move.
So I cross the threshold, careful, and ease the door shut behind me. The click is quiet, but it sounds like a decision.
Her room smells like her—clean soap and warm sheets and a hint of old paper, like she’s got books tucked into the corners of her life no matter where she goes. It’s the kind of scent that gets into a man’s lungs and makes him want to stay.
Delaney stands with her back to the door now, chin tipped up even as her shoulders tense. “Talk to me,” she says, voice soft but stubborn. “What is this?”
I take a step closer. Another. I stop an arm’s length away. “This is me being done with the pretending,” I say. “We agreed in the barn we couldn’t act on it. That we had to keep it clean. Professional. For the ranch.” I exhale, slow and heavy. “I walked away thinking I could do that. Thinking I could just… lock it down the way I lock everything down.”
Her brows knit, conflict flickering across her face. “And now?” she asks.
“Now I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words scrape out of me like they’ve been caught behind my teeth for years. “Not the cover story. Not the show. You. The real you.”
Her eyes shine like she hates that.
I keep going anyway, because I didn’t come here to half-ass it. “I’ve wanted you for years, Laney,” I whisper. “Not in some vague, nostalgic way. In the way that kept me alive on nights I didn’t want to be alive.” I swallow hard. “I tried to kill it. I tried to move on. I tried to date other women like that would rewrite the part of me you’re carved into.”
Her breath catches.
“It didn’t,” I say. “It never did.”
She lifts a hand like she might stop me, then hesitates. Her fingers hover in the space between us, trembling.
“You’re scared,” she murmurs, like she can read the pulse in my throat.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Because I know what it’s like to ruin something good. And I know this ranch is under threat. And I know the timing is trash.” A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “But Ialso know I’m tired of living like the only thing I’m allowed to feel is control.”
Delaney’s mouth parts. Her voice comes out small. “What do you want, Nash?”
The question hits me hard. Simple. Dangerous.
“I want to kiss you,” I say. Honest as a blade. “And I want you to tell me yes.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth and linger.
It’s a silent war in her face—responsibility versus want, past pain versus present heat. I don’t move. I don’t crowd her. I just wait.
Then she whispers, barely audible, “Yes.”
Everything in me goes still for a heartbeat—like the world takes one breath and holds it.
I lift my hand slowly, palm open, giving her the chance to flinch.
She doesn’t.
So I cup her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the line where her cheek meets her chin. Her skin is warm. Real. “Laney,” I murmur, and her lashes flutter like her name is a touch.
Then I kiss her.
