“Come with me, darlin’,” he whispers. “Let go. Right here. Just us and the water.”
And I do.
We break together, gasping, clutching each other in the middle of the creek like nothing else exists.
He holds me after, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart still racing.
Neither of us says a word.
We don’t need to.
Chapter 9
Sierra
BythetimeI’mstanding in the middle of a boutique in Valor Springs, I’ve officially entered the part of my life where nothing feels real anymore. Like I stepped sideways into a different version of my existence and just… stayed there.
The place is calledBluebell & Birch, which sounds like something you’d name a candle, not a store where a woman can buy jeans without flinching.
The front windows are all sunlit displays and breezy mannequins in linen sets. Inside, it smells like vanilla diffuser and warm cedar, clean and soft, like the owner is determined to make every woman who walks in feel taken care of.
There are sizes for everyone, not just the ones people like to pretend exist. Curves included. No shame hung on the hangers.
I’m wearing borrowed clothes. Mae, Gray’s sister, handed me a soft bundle when Knox and I got back from the swimming hole, with a look that said she’d done this for women before.
No questions. No pity. Just practical kindness and a quiet kind of understanding.
But I need my own clothes. I need something that’s mine. So now I’m here, surrounded by tags and mirrors and a salesgirl who keeps calling me “sweetie” like she has no idea my world has teeth.
Outside the shop window, through the glare of Texas sun, Knox Sutton leans against his truck with his phone to his ear, posture loose but attention locked. Like he’s relaxed on purpose, like he wants anyone watching to underestimate him.
He’s in a black tee that clings to his chest and shoulders, faded jeans that sit low on his hips, and worn boots dusted like he’s already walked a mile of trouble today.
He looks like the kind of man who belongs under a wide sky and doesn’t apologize for the space he takes up. Cowboy, bodyguard, menace, maybe all of it.
He looks like the kind of man people write songs about and regret meeting at the same time.
The memory of hours ago hits me hard and hot, and I shove it down because I am not doing that right now. I’m not replaying his mouth on mine while I’m standing between a rack of sundresses and a display of gold hoop earrings.
I focus on the jeans in my hands instead.
“Do you want to try those?” the salesgirl asks, too bright, too normal.
I blink at her. “I… yeah. Sure.”
In the fitting room, I stare at myself in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back.
Messy hair shoved into a claw clip. Eyes a little shadowed, like grief moved in and never left. But there’s a softness in mycheeks I didn’t put there with makeup. A quiet kind of brightness that has everything to do with a man in worn boots outside the window.
I pull on the jeans. They fit.
Of course they do. In this small town where comfort shows up like a surprise and I don’t know what to do with it.
When I step out, the salesgirl claps her hands softly like she’s witnessing a miracle.
“Those are perfect on you,” she says. “And that color looks so good with your hair.”
My instinct is to reject it. To shrink. To apologize for taking up space.
