My apartment is there. My job, what’s left of it, is there. My whole big-city life I built out of stubbornness and survival is there.
And Nash…
Nash is Valor Springs down to his bones.
This ranch. His job. The way he knows the land like it’s an extension of his body.
How does a relationship like this work when our zip codes don’t match?
When the last time we tried to want each other, life broke us apart?
I stare at the sponsor packet in my hands and suddenly can’t read the words.
My chest tightens.
Nash steps into the kitchen a second later, wiping his hands on a rag. He catches my expression instantly. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.
I try to smile it off. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “Laney.”
There it is again—my name, softened like he’s holding it carefully.
I swallow, then tell the truth because it’s sitting too heavy. “I’m scared,” I admit.
His gaze softens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just waits.
“Not about the rodeo,” I say quickly. “Not even about the sabotage—well, yes, that too. But…” I tap my fingers against the packet like I can organize my feelings into a neat list. “This. Us. Because it feels easy with you. And easy doesn’t happen to me.”
He steps closer, slow. “Easy doesn’t mean fragile.”
“But what happens after?” I whisper. “After we catch whoever’s doing this. After Rodeo Days. After I’m not needed here every second.” My throat tightens. “I live in Saint Pierce, Nash.”
He studies me for a long beat, then reaches out and hooks a finger under my chin, tipping my gaze to his.
“We’re not solving ten years of distance in one morning,” he says quietly. “We’re just… here. Today.”
“And tomorrow?”
His mouth curves, faint but sure. “Tomorrow we keep being honest.”
That should scare me more. Instead it steadies me. Because Nash Hawthorne isn’t promising something shiny and impossible. He’s promising the only thing I’ve ever actually needed from him:
Presence.
Choice.
Not running.
I let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead—soft, not for show, just for me. Then he glances toward the window again, that watchful edge returning like a reflex. “Now,” he says, voice shifting back to business, “tell me which vendor has the biggest mouth and the best view of your north pasture.”
I blink. “Why?”
His eyes sharpen. “Because whoever’s doing this isn’t just cutting wire. They’re watching you.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
