Chapter 12 Tasha
twelve
tasha
"Too much thinking?" he repeated, glancing over at me with amusement.
"Apparently her brain was working so hard, it was pulling blood away from her heart." I shook my head. "She was very serious about this theory."
"And the actual diagnosis?"
"Acid reflux. From the gas station burrito she'd eaten an hour before."
His laugh was genuine, warm, and I found myself studying his profile in the dashboard light. He had good hands on the steering wheel, long fingers, no wedding ring tan line. I'd noticed that at work, of course, but tonight felt different. Tonight I was allowed to look.
"What?" he asked, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just... you seem more relaxed than usual."
"It's the shirt," he said with mock seriousness. "The blue brings out my eyes. Paige told me so."
"Paige has excellent taste."
The honky-tonk was exactly what I'd expected—neon beer signs, sawdust on the floor, the kind of place where everyone knew the words to every song and nobody cared if you couldn't line dance. Perfect for my purposes.
Nate held the door for me, ever the gentleman, and I watched his face as we walked in. He looked... curious. Not uncomfortable, not judgmental, just interested. Like he was genuinely wondering what I was up to.
Good. Let him wonder.
We found a table near the dance floor but not so close we'd get trampled by enthusiastic two-steppers. The waitress—all big hair and bigger smile—took our drink orders. I got a beer, he asked for the same.
"Just one?" I asked.
"Yes, please. Two is my limit." He said it matter-of-factly, without explanation, and I filed that information away for later consideration.
The conversation flowed easier than I'd expected. He asked about my family, and I found myself telling him about being the middle child, about trying medical-surgical nursing first and hating every minute of it.
"ICU was even worse," I said, taking a sip of my beer. "All that monitoring, all those drips, sitting there for twelve hours, watching numbers on a screen. I lasted exactly three shifts before I begged to be transferred."
"But you love the ER."
"I love Fast Track," I corrected. "I know they stuck me there because I was new, figuring maybe I wasn't ready for the acute care side. But honestly? I like the pace. You never stop moving, never get bored. And the patients might seem 'easier,' but that's not always true."
"Like the epiglottitis case," he said, and I was surprised he remembered.
"Exactly. Guy comes in for a sore throat, gets triaged to Fast Track, and I'm the one who caught that his voice was getting muffled. If he'd sat in the waiting room for another hour..." I shrugged. "Dr. Lee nailed the cric, though. Have to give him credit for that."
"Lee's a smartass, but he handled that with swagger," Nate agreed. "Jumped right up on the bed, did the whole thing without flinching."
"Yeah, well, he used to hit on me until I..." I paused, smiling at the memory. "Let's just say he doesn't anymore."
Nate's eyebrows rose. "Should I ask?"
"Probably better if you don't. But he's been very professional ever since."
The band took the stage then—three guys in cowboy hats and a woman with a voice that could make angels weep. They opened with something slow and sad, but by the third song they'd shifted into something more upbeat. The dance floor filled with couples doing the two-step and the Cotton-Eyed Joe.
That's when the magic happened.
The opening notes of "Friends in Low Places" filled the air, and I watched something shift in Nate's expression. His foot started tapping under the table. His fingers drummed against his beer bottle.
"Oh no," I said, grinning. "You know this song."
"Everyone knows this song."
"Not like you know this song."
He was trying to look innocent, but I could see the war playing out on his face. Professional Nate versus... whoever this was who wanted to sing along to Garth Brooks.
Whoever this was won.
When the chorus hit, Nathan Crawford—serious, controlled, military-precise Nathan Crawford—opened his mouth and belted out every single word with a perfect baritone country twang. Not just mumbling along, but really singing, with feeling and enthusiasm and zero self-consciousness.
I was absolutely gone.
I'd seen him handle medical emergencies with calm competence. I'd watched him father his daughter with tender devotion. But this—this goofy, uninhibited, secretly-country-music-loving side of him—was a revelation.
"Holy shit," I breathed when the song ended. "You're full of surprises."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "I went through a phase in the Navy."
"A phase?"
"Okay, fine. I still listen to country music when I'm cleaning house. Happy?"
I was more than happy. I was enchanted. "What else don't I know about you, Nathan Crawford?"
"Probably a lot."
The band shifted to something slower, and couples moved onto the dance floor in various states of coordination. Nate glanced toward them, then back at me.
"I should probably mention I'm not much of a dancer," he said.
"That's okay. I'm not much of a follower."
But we went out there anyway, finding a spot where we wouldn't get in anyone's way. He held me carefully, respectfully, one hand on my waist and the other holding mine. We swayed more than danced, but it was perfect.
"This is nice," I said, close enough to his ear that he could hear me over the music.
"Yeah, it is."
I could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, could smell his cologne—something clean and masculine that made me want to bury my face in his neck. When the song ended, we stayed like that for a moment, close enough that I could feel his breath on my forehead.
"Tasha," he said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For this. For..." He seemed to be searching for words. "For seeing something in me worth taking a chance on. It means a lot to me."
My heart did something complicated. "Nathan."
"Yeah?"
"Take me back to your place."
The drive back to his place was charged with anticipation. We didn't talk much, but the air between us hummed with possibility. When he pulled into his driveway, we sat there for a moment, both of us knowing what came next but neither wanting to rush it.
"Are you sure?" he asked finally.
"I'm sure."
Inside, he turned on a single lamp in the living room, casting everything in warm, golden light. We stood there looking at each other, suddenly awkward again, like teenagers who didn't know what to do with their hands.
"Do you want some coffee? Or water? I could—"
I silenced him by stepping close and putting my hands on his chest. "Nate."
"Yeah?"
"Stop thinking so hard."
He laughed nervously, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I can't help it. It's been... it's been a while since..."
"How long is a while?"
He looked away, color creeping up his neck. "Since before Paige was born."
I blinked. "Since... what now?"
"Eleven years," he said quietly. "Give or take."
I stared at him, trying to process this information. "Eleven years!? Nathan, that's not 'a while,' that's a geological epoch."
"I know how it sounds—"
"Wait." I held up a hand, my mind reeling. "You're telling me you haven't been with anyone since Paige's mother left?"
He nodded, looking uncomfortable.
"You were a veteran. A single dad raising an amazing daughter. You were even in nursing school." I was talking faster now, trying to wrap my head around this. "How were those girls not throwing their panties at you?"
"Tasha—"
"No, seriously. A hot single dad in scrubs who was devoted to his daughter? I'm honestly shocked half those nursing students didn't get pregnant just from their ovaries practically staging a revolt in your presence."
He laughed despite himself. "It wasn't like that."
"A hundred horny co-eds were begging you to fuck them and you told them no? For your daughter!?"
The crude words hung in the air between us, but I wasn't embarrassed. I was amazed. Awed, even.
"Paige needed stability," he said simply. "She needed to know that she could count on me, that I wouldn't bring people into her life who might leave again. So I made a choice."
And there it was. The thing that made Nathan Crawford different from every other man I'd ever known. Not just his competence or his kindness, but this—this absolute, unwavering devotion to his child that had led him to sacrifice his own needs for over a decade.
"Jesus, Nathan," I whispered. "You're..."
"What?"
"You're extraordinary."
* * *
I stared at him, the full weight of what he'd just told me settling in my chest. Eleven years.
He'd been alone for eleven years, not because no one wanted him, but because he'd chosen his daughter over everything else.
Over every opportunity, every moment of loneliness, every basic human need for companionship.
And now he was here, with me, letting me in. Trusting me with the most precious thing in his world.
I kissed him then, pouring all my admiration and desire and growing feelings into it. He responded immediately, his arms coming around me, pulling me closer. When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"Tasha," he said against my lips.
"Take me to bed, Nathan. Please."
He did.
_______________________________________________________________
The bedroom was dim, the bedside lamp casting soft golden light across the rumpled sheets. Nate's hand was warm and steady in mine, but everything else felt electric—like the air had changed the moment the door shut behind us.
He pulled me gently against him, and I kissed him like I meant it. Because I did. Because I'd never meant anything more.
His fingers threaded into my hair, one hand slipping to the small of my back. I could feel how tightly he held himself in check, the tension just beneath the surface. When I deepened the kiss, pressing my body into his, he let out the smallest, roughest sound—half surrender, half warning.
"Tasha," he murmured, his breath brushing my jaw. "You're sure?"
I answered by sliding my hands beneath his shirt, dragging my palms up over his chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the thud of his heart.
"I've never been more sure."
He pulled back slightly, and the look in his eyes—raw, vulnerable, fiercely determined—nearly undid me completely.
"I've wanted this for so long," he confessed quietly, his voice rough with honesty. "Wanted you. But I couldn't let myself... not with Paige to think about."
I reached up, cupping his face in my hands. "I'm here. We're here. And she's safe."
Something shifted in his expression then—relief, gratitude, pure want—and that was all it took.
He kissed me harder then—hungry, unguarded, no longer holding back. The kind of kiss that made my knees buckle and my pulse race. The kind that made me forget everything but his name.
We undressed each other in fits and starts, half-drunk on adrenaline and anticipation.
I tugged his shirt over his head and ran my hands across his bare chest, memorizing the curve of muscle, the scars I wanted to learn by heart.
He stripped off my blouse with reverence and heat in equal measure, his eyes drinking me in like I was something he wasn’t sure he deserved but had decided to worship anyway.
When he leaned down to kiss the curve of my shoulder, I shivered. When his mouth trailed lower, I gasped.
He caught my eye. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered.
We tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, skin against skin, every inch of him driving me wild with want. He kissed down my body slowly, savoring, teasing, making me arch and moan and beg for more. And then he moved lower, tasting me with a thoroughness that left me breathless.
By the time he came back up, I was shaking. He kissed me again, and I could taste myself on his lips.
“Nathan,” I said, voice wrecked. “Please. I need you.”
The look he gave me was pure fire. “You have me.”
He moved over me, strong and careful and completely overwhelming, and when he finally entered me, I swore the earth shifted. I clutched at him, anchoring myself to the solid, burning reality of us.
He set a rhythm that was slow but deep, every thrust deliberate, like he needed to memorize how we fit together. I matched him beat for beat, every movement a promise, every gasp a surrender.
“God,” he whispered into my neck. “You feel like—like coming home.”
I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to get closer still. The pressure built fast, relentless, curling in my belly like a fuse about to blow.
“Nathan,” I gasped. “I’m—”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, Tasha.”
And then I shattered.
Pleasure slammed through me, wild and blinding. I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, body arched into his. He followed a heartbeat later, groaning my name as he buried himself deep, his control finally breaking.
We clung to each other, shaking, kissing like we were still trying to catch up with what we’d just done.
I couldn’t stop touching him—his back, his jaw, the sweat-slick strands of hair at his temple.
He kissed the curve of my breast, my collarbone, the corner of my mouth, like he was afraid I might vanish if he let me go.
“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” he said hoarsely.
“No,” I said, smiling up at him. “It was right now. It had to be now.”
He held me tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. "Thank you. For tonight, for everything."
"Don't thank me yet," I teased lightly, hoping to ease the tension that had returned to his shoulders. "I'm not done with you."
He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss to my forehead. "Good."
We lay in quiet comfort, the night wrapping around us like a promise.
Yet even in that perfect stillness, I felt a subtle tension in Nate's body, something lingering just beneath the surface.
It was a reminder that for all the gentleness and tenderness we'd shared, Nathan Crawford was a man carrying scars…
Both seen and unseen.