Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nash
The next morning, I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of Lucy humming in the kitchen. For a second, I let it wash over me—eyes closed, mouth curved, body heavy with sleep.
Then I bolt upright.
If Lucy’s up, I’m late for work.
Why didn’t she wake me?
But it’s still dark out, that quiet, pre-dawn blue just beginning to tint the windows.
I check the clock. I’m not late. Which begs the question—why the hell is Lucy awake?
My suspicion kicks in before my brain finishes rebooting.
I rake a hand through my hair, tug on a pair of sweats, and head for the kitchen, already bracing myself.
The smell of coffee’s stronger now, rich and dark and laced with something else.
A trap, maybe.
I stop in the doorway, blinking once at the view.
Lucy’s back is to me, legs bare, crutches tucked under her shoulders as she hums along to some lo-fi beat on her phone. She’s wearing another pair of those barely-there pajama shorts that should be illegal.
My mind flashes back to yesterday without permission—warm skin, wet hair, the scent of coconut and something softer, something hers.
And for whatever reason, maybe because I’ve only been awake five minutes, maybe because Bennett listened to me last night, decided I was falling for her, and didn’t see the problem in that, or maybe it’s just because it’s been a long five years followed by a particularly weird month, but the memory of Lucy’s bare skin makes me mad.
“Don’t you get cold?” I grumble.
She jumps, spinning toward me with wide eyes and a hand to her chest. “Geeze, Nash! You trying to kill me?”
“Just asking a question.” I gesture vaguely at her legs. “You know we’re indoors, right? Climate-controlled and everything.”
“Don’t you know better than to sneak up on the walking wounded?” she says, still breathless. “Also, I find the better start to the day is something like ‘good morning’ or ‘how did you sleep?’ Judging my wardrobe is a bold choice.”
Lucy pours me a cup of coffee and hands it over like a peace offering.
I take it like a man preparing for war. “You’re not usually up this early.”
“I wanted to catch you before you left.”
I narrow one eye. “Ah. So it is a trap.”
Her brows lift. “A trap?”
“You. Out of bed before ten. Can’t mean anything good.”
“And here I thought you’d already shown me the definition of cynical. Pre-coffee Nash is another level entirely.” She waves her mug at me. “Drink. Let the caffeine do its thing. I’d like to talk to the man behind the bear before he leaves for work.”
I snort but take a sip, watching her move around the kitchen like it’s hers. Like she belongs here. Steam curls from her cup as she lifts it to her nose and closes her eyes. A few loose tendrils of hair have broken free from her ponytail, soft and golden around her face.
I drain my first cup and pour another. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Lucy beams. “There he is. A civilized human. I was starting to wonder if you made morning appearances.”
I collect her mug from her hands, setting it down with mine on the table before pulling out her chair. “Poke the bear at your own risk. I’m only one cup in.”
She laughs and settles into the chair, propping her crutches beside her. “You said three- or four-weeks non-weight bearing. We’re close to the end of that fourth week.”
“We’ll see how things look during PT tonight. No promises, but maybe we start weaning off the crutches.”
Her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. She hides it behind her mug, but not well enough.
“Tell me that’s not why you got up before dawn.”
“I mean, that’s part of it,” she says, setting her coffee down, “but mostly, I wanted to talk about yesterday.”
And there it is. The moment I can’t stop replaying that only highlights a situation I don’t know how to handle.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There is, though.” Lucy lifts her chin, her voice steady and confident. “There’s something between us. And I get it—you’re old enough to know better, blah blah blah—but what was I supposed to do? Sit here all day stressing about how awkward it will be when you got home? That sounds miserable.”
“So, your solution was to ambush me over coffee?”
“Exactly. Rip off the Band-Aid.” She shrugs. “We’re attracted to each other, Nash. That’s fine, right? It happens. We can admit it and stop tiptoeing around it. Maybe it goes away. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, I’m not going to pretend it’s not there.”
And if it’s more than just attraction? If it’s tumbling into connection? What then? Do we admit that, too?
My jaw ticks. “And if it doesn’t go away?”
She hesitates, clearly as unsure how to answer as I am. “Then we figure it out.”
Figure it out. That’s about as useless as Bennett’s advice yesterday. There’s no plan. No clarity. No certainty. Just figure it out, see where it leads, do it anyway.
Who lives like that?
“Or...” Lucy smirks as she draws out the word. “I take Gabby’s advice.”
Despite how adorable she looks, my stomach sinks. “Dare I ask?”
“You saw me naked,” she says, matter of fact. “So I get to see you naked.”
I cough on a laugh. “Not gonna happen.”
“It would only be fair.”
“Still not gonna happen.”
“It’s not that big of a deal.” Lucy sits back in her chair with studied nonchalance. “This isn’t eighteenth-century England.”
“Right. Because you were so chill about it yesterday.”
“I was. As a dancer, nudity really isn’t a big thing.”
“Sure. That’s what I saw all over your face—calm, detached professionalism.”
She grins. “You’re not a dancer, Nash. You’re… you.”
“So, if I were a dancer, you’d have been totally cool?”
“We’re getting off track.”
“I just want to understand the mystery. When is nakedness fine, and when is it grounds for a full-blown freakout?”
“Why?” she asks, cocking a brow. “You planning to see me naked again?”
And just like that, my senses come alive.
The room goes still.
The coffee turns to mud in my mouth.
Because yeah… I am definitely thinking about seeing her naked again.
“Actually,” I manage, voice low, “I was thinking of asking you to dinner at my mom’s on Sunday.”
And there’s a curveball I never thought I’d throw. Bennett is so gonna get it for planting that bad idea bomb in my head.
“I’d love that!” Lucy’s energy brightens in a way I didn’t think was possible from someone who already feels like sunlight. “I haven’t seen your mama in forever.”
Her gaze narrows, suspicion bleeding into her expression. “Wait. Now I smell a trap. How is this not crossing all the lines you’re so desperate to draw?”
“I thought you just said we didn’t need lines.”
She waves away the statement like she can erase it from the record. “I told Gabby and Stella we might hang out Sunday.”
And suddenly, I see the cure to my curveball.
“Bring them.”
“Bring them?”
“Sure? Why not? I know Mom would love to see you again, and you guys all hung out back in the day, right? She’d probably like to see all of you. A reunion, if you will”
I shrug, hoping that sounds reasonable enough to make my invitation to Lucy seem less intense and more natural.
“Stella and Bennett at the same table?” Lucy scrunches her nose. “Disaster.”
“Bennett needs a little Stella in his life,” I say. “Keeps him humble.”
“Gabby, though?” I shake my head. “I know she loved your mom too, but showing up for family dinner after the way she and Grayson ended? That actually is crossing a line.”
“I get that. Bennett needs humility. Gabby needs space.”
Lucy tilts her head, watching me. “And what about you?” Her voice has gone soft. Not teasing. Not flirty. Just… searching. “What do you need, Nash?”
You.
I need you.
Mornings like this and nights like the ones in my fantasies.
I stare into my coffee, the bitterness blooming again on my tongue.
“Probably not what I want.”
“That’s not an answer,” she says quietly.
“It’s the only one I’ve got.” I stand and slide my chair back in, heading down the hallway to dress for work.
“Wow,” Lucy says behind me. “That’s impressive even for you.”
I stop walking and turn back to her slowly, hand still on the doorframe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You never say what you mean. You step right up to it, then walk away. Literally, this morning.”
“You want honesty?” I say, voice low. “Fine.” I pause.
Swallow hard. “I didn’t realize how small my life had become until you showed up.
Now I’m going to music festivals and talking about music and coming home to a house that isn’t dark and empty and lonely and suddenly I want things I haven’t let myself want in a long time.
” My gaze meets hers and doesn’t waver. “You being one of them.”
The silence between us stretches tight. Charged.
“But I’m trying not to screw this up. For you, for me, for a hundred different reasons.” I hold up my hands in acceptance.
A slow smile blossoms in clear blue eyes, like the sunrise glittering across the bay. “That right there? That’s hot.”
Of all the possible answers in the world, that was one I least expected. I find myself chuckling.
“My discomfort turns you on?”
“Nope. But honesty does. I dig it.” Lucy dips her chin, smiling even harder. “I appreciate your vulnerability, Doc Gruff. And to show my gratitude, I’ll stop poking the bear. Promise.”
It’s late. My shift was long. My body’s tired but my brain’s wired. Lucy’s asleep in the guestroom and I should be, too. Tomorrow’s early shift won’t be made easier by exhaustion, that’s for sure. But my thoughts won’t shut down long enough to make that happen.
They circle every aspect of the last four weeks with Lucy, annotating, dissecting, questioning. Trying to sort things into labeled boxes that makes sense.
But there are too many pieces I just can’t label.
From the moment we met, she affected me in a way that no one ever has.
Sure, I like to help people in need. Of course, she’s pretty. Yes, I find her independence and self-reliance really freaking cool.
But there’s more to her than that. Like part of me saw her and knew.
Knew what? I’m not sure. Which is yet another piece I can’t label, which is frustrating as hell. Before I know it, I’m up and out of bed, reaching into my closet and pulling out the guitar I’ve had since I was ten.
The wood is cool beneath my fingers. Familiar. Wrong, somehow, but not unwelcome. This guitar knew me before medicine did. It smells like old pine and dust. Like summer nights on the porch. Like something I meant to come back to.
I perch on the edge of the bed and set the guitar on my lap, smiling gently as I slide my fingers along the fretboard, enjoying the whine of the strings under my touch. The snapped string still curls like a scar across the bridge. I ignore it.
My thumb brushes the lower strings. A rough, warbling vibration shudders in the hollow body. It’s out of tune. And I’m out of practice. But I shift my grip and try again. Something soft. Melancholy.
A minor chord. It echoes longer than it should.
I don’t know what I’m playing. Maybe nothing. Maybe a shape my hands remember. Maybe a song I started and never finished—like a lot of things in my life.
I keep going, barely pressing down. One note bleeds into the next. Then fades.
I stop.
The silence settles in again, but something still hums in my chest.
Not a song. Not yet. Just the echo of steel biting into soft skin.
My fingertips sting with it.
Like they remember what I tried to forget.
I put the guitar down, then, after a few minutes, open my phone to shop for guitar strings.