I stare up at him, lips swollen, heartbeat loud, and try to file this moment away somewhere permanent.
“We should get up,” I whisper.
He stares down, a slow smile spreading. “Oh, I’m definitely up.”
I laugh—quiet, disbelieving.
He drops a kiss to the tip of my nose. “That sound… I missed that sound.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t get to say sweet things at 8 a.m. like you didn’t emotionally devastate me for most of my twenties.”
His smile goes crooked, regret flickering. “Fair.”
Then he kisses me again, and the argument evaporates into heat.
We’re halfway into another round of kissing—hands roaming in ways that make my brain short out—when Nash goes still.
Not stiff. Alert.
His head tilts slightly, listening.
I freeze too, suddenly aware of the house beyond my room. The hallway. The kitchen. My mother’s Jedi hearing.
“What?” I whisper.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, but his eyes sharpen. “Just checking. Old habit.”
Of course it is.
He kisses my forehead like an apology, then pulls back with a reluctant exhale. “We should get up.”
I groan. “I hate responsible decisions.”
He slides off the bed, offers me his hand like I’m a lady and not a woman who just tried to climb him like a tree.
“Rodeo Days is soon,” he says, voice calm but amused. “You’re the only person in this county capable of making a vendor list behave.”
I take his hand and let him pull me up, because I’m apparently choosing softness today.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I’m doing it in a terrible mood.”
He lifts a brow. “Liar.”
I dress fast—jeans, boots, a tee that says COLEMAN RANCH in cracked lettering. Nash disappears to his room across the hall and comes back looking unfairly put together in about thirty seconds. He glances at my door as if to make sure it’s shut behind us, then walks with me down the stairs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It is.
That’s the scary part.
In the kitchen, Mama is already at the counter with her coffee.
She looks up.
She looks at Nash.
She looks at me.
Then she takes a long sip like she’s tasting a new reality.
