Chapter 9
Nash couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so keenly aware of another person’s presence in his space.
As he followed Amy through the front door of his home—her limping slightly despite her insistence that her ankle felt “much better”—he took in the subtle details that had changed since she’d arrived.
Her shoes by the door, neatly placed beside his.
A textbook on Porter Rockwell open on his coffee table.
The scent of her shampoo lingering in the hallway.
It felt strangely right.
“So,” he said, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. “Dr. Martinez.”
Amy groaned, collapsing onto the couch and propping her injured ankle on the coffee table. “I am so sorry about that. I panicked.”
“About which part?” Nash grinned, enjoying the pink flush that crept up her cheeks. “The part where you told your boss we’re dating, or the part where you almost got us dive-bombed to death by bats?”
She grinned. “Neither of those things were my fault!”
“Sure, sure. Blame the bats. For what it’s worth, I think you handled Martinez well. That guy gives me the creeps.”
Amy leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve worked with him for two years, and I’ve never seen him outside the university. Certainly never hiking.”
“He was following us,” Nash agreed, moving to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, surveying its newly stocked contents. “The question is, why? Is he working for the Ferrantes, or does he have his own agenda?”
“I don’t know,” Amy admitted. “But his timing was too convenient to be coincidence.”
Nash’s stomach rumbled loudly, interrupting their speculation. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was already past two. “I’m starving. All that bat-dodging really works up an appetite.”
Amy laughed, the sound warming something in Nash’s chest. “I’m pretty hungry too.”
“I could make us some lunch,” he offered, pulling out eggs and cheese. “How do omelets sound?”
Amy pushed herself up from the couch. “Actually, it’s my turn. You cooked last night.”
“You sure?” he asked, eyeing her ankle.
She waved him off. “It’s better. Really.” She limped to the kitchen, shooing him away from the refrigerator. “Besides, I want to thank you for everything—the ankle wrapping, the hiking stick, the bat rescue.”
Nash raised his hands in surrender, moving to one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. “By all means, then. Impress me with your culinary skills, Amy Roberts.”
He saw her pause at the use of her real name, a small smile playing at her lips. He’d been careful to keep calling her Sadie when anyone else might overhear, but here in the privacy of his home, he enjoyed using the name she’d kept hidden for so long.
Amy moved around his kitchen with surprising familiarity, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets.
Nash found himself content to just watch her—the way she hummed softly to herself as she worked, the delicate movements of her hands, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows.
“Are you one of those health-food people?” he asked as she assembled an impressive array of vegetables, organic quinoa, and grass-fed steaks on the counter.
She glanced up with a grin. “What gave it away? The twelve lemons or the almond milk?”
“Both.” Nash chuckled. “And the fact that you nearly had a heart attack when I suggested we stop for burgers on the way home.”
“It’s not about being healthy,” she corrected, deftly chopping bell peppers. “It’s about knowing what’s in your food.” She pointed the knife at him for emphasis. “My mom got really into clean eating after …” She hesitated. “After we moved to Salt Lake. I guess some of it stuck with me.”
Nash nodded, understanding what she wasn’t saying. After losing her father, after witness protection, her mother had sought control in the only ways she could. “Well, whatever you’re making smells amazing already,” he said, watching as she sautéed garlic and onions in olive oil.
“It’s nothing fancy. Just a quinoa bowl with roasted vegetables and grilled steak.” She glanced up with a teasing smile. “Trying to ease you ranch boys into healthy eating.”
“Hey now,” Nash protested. “I eat healthy.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why your refrigerator was empty except for condiments and string cheese before I arrived?”
“I was busy,” he defended weakly. “And there was also orange juice. That counts as a fruit, right?”
Amy laughed, the sound making his chest tighten in the best possible way. There was something about her laughter—unguarded and genuine—that made Nash feel like he’d accomplished something significant every time he caused it.
“So,” he said casually, watching as she expertly seasoned the steaks, “I’ve been thinking about what you told Martinez.”
“Which part?” she asked, not looking up from her work.
“The dating part.”
Her hands stilled momentarily before resuming their task. “Oh?”
Nash leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “I think we should keep it up.”
Now she did look up, her green eyes meeting his with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name. “Keep up the fake dating?”
“I mean, fake or real. Just for safety,” Nash clarified, though even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Think about it—if Martinez is connected to the Ferrantes, or if he’s after the gold himself, it gives us a reasonable explanation for why we’re spending time together.
It’s better than trying to explain the whole complicated truth. ”
Amy considered this, her head tilted slightly to the side in a way that Nash found unreasonably adorable. “I guess that makes sense.” She picked up the plate of seasoned steaks. “These need to go on the grill.”
Nash hopped up from the barstool. “I’ll help.”
He led the way to the back patio where his grill stood, a housewarming gift from his brothers that had seen more use in the last year than he cared to admit.
“So how exactly do we ‘keep up’ this fake dating thing?” Amy asked, handing him the steaks as the grill heated. “I mean, we haven’t even kissed.”
Nash’s heart skipped a beat, then seemed to double its pace to make up for it. He grinned, carefully placing the steaks on the hot grill before closing the lid. “Well, I guess we have to fix that.”
Before he could overthink it, Nash stepped closer, gently took her face in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers in a light, soft kiss.
The contact was brief—barely more than a moment—but Nash felt it all the way to his bones.
When he pulled back, Amy’s eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted in surprise.
“Okay,” she said softly, grinning.
“Now we’ve kissed,” he said, his voice huskier than he’d intended. “A real kiss.”
Amy nodded, then surprised him and leaned forward, kissing him again.
This time, there was nothing light or brief about it. Her hands slid up his chest to loop around his neck. Nash’s arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss deepened, years of wondering and waiting and what-ifs dissolving in the heat between them.
Nash lost track of time, lost track of everything except the feel of Amy in his arms, the softness of her lips, the quiet sound she made when he tangled one hand in her hair.
Eventually, Amy pulled back slightly, a breathless laugh escaping her. “The meat.”
“What?” Nash asked, still dazed.
“The steaks,” she clarified, with humor in her tone. “We should check them.”
“Right.” Nash reluctantly released her, turning to open the grill. The steaks were sizzling perfectly, not a bit overdone. “They’re fine.” He closed the lid again and turned back to Amy, unable to resist drawing her into his arms once more.
This time when he kissed her, it was slower, more deliberate, as if he was memorizing everything about this moment. Her hands rested against his chest, and Nash could swear she must feel his heart hammering beneath her fingers.
When they finally separated, Amy looked up at him with a small smile. “Hey, I think we got our practice in.”
Nash kept his arms around her, his gaze steady on hers. “So we’ve agreed this is real dating, right?”
Her expression shifted, uncertainty in her eyes. “Nash, this whole thing is crazy. I don’t know why you’d want to start something with someone who isn’t even … real.”
“You are real.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek before sweeping down to steal another brief kiss. “And maybe that’s not your decision.”
She looked stunned for a moment; then her expression softened. She leaned up and kissed him again.
Nash felt himself getting lost in her, in the rightness of this connection that had somehow survived eight years of separation and secrets. He deepened the kiss.
She held tightly to him.
Eventually, Nash pulled back with a laugh. “Now we really have to check the meat.”
Amy smiled up at him, something warm and tender in her eyes that made his chest ache in the best possible way. “Okay. I think,” she said softly, “that I’m going to need a lot more practice at this dating thing.”
Nash grinned, feeling lighter than he had in years. “Good, then we’re agreed. We’ll real date and keep practicing our kissing.”
She giggled again.
He liked the sound of it more and more.
As he turned to check the steaks, Nash caught sight of movement at the edge of his property—a flash of something near the fence line that separated his yard from his neighbor’s. He squinted, trying to make out what he’d seen, but whatever it was had disappeared.
A chill ran down his spine, the moment of happiness dimming slightly. Were they being watched?
He didn’t mention it to Amy, not wanting to spoil their moment. But as they carried the steaks back inside, Nash couldn’t shake the feeling that their fragile bubble of normalcy was about to burst—and that when it did, they would need more than kisses to survive what was coming.