Chapter 10
That name lands like a strike of lightning. Will doesn’t move, but something in his jaw tightens, sharp enough to cut glass.
“I’ll be back later.”
Am I being a coward? Maybe.
I hurry from the room, and arrive to the lobby of the hotel just as Nash is walking in. And holy moly. He’s dressed head to toe in black. Fitted dress shirt, dark jeans, boots so polished they catch the light, and that black Stetson tilted just enough to look dangerous.
“You look beautiful, Phern,” he says, his eyes dragging down my body with unashamed appreciation.
Heat rises up my neck, but I don’t look away.
I just smile and take his outstretched hand, letting him lead me outside to where his truck is already rumbling at the curb.
It's sleek, spotless, and smells faintly of leather and cologne when I slide inside.
The ride to the restaurant is easy. Windows down, Texas breeze warm against my skin.
We pass neon-lit honkytonks, saddle shops, and tourists crowding the sidewalks, and it all feels strangely electric.
Then one of Sam’s songs comes on the radio and I snort, shaking my head.
“That’s your brother, right?” Nash asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” I say, still grinning.
“I’ve met him before. He’s a nice guy,” Nash says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
There’s a beat. A pause long enough for my chest to tighten. There’s always that moment where I wait to see if someone’s going to start talking about Sam Stone, country music star, heartbreaker, billboard fixture. Brandon used to talk about Sam like he was the prize and I was just the plus one.
But Nash doesn’t. He shifts the conversation entirely, like he knows.
“My daughter really likes his songs. Of course, she also likes Taylor Swift.”
“You have a daughter? How old is she?”
His whole face transforms into what can only be described as light.
“Yeah. Natalie. She’s twelve, going on thirty. Everything I wished I could be at that age. Smart. Adventurous. Knows just what she wants out of life.”
There’s no hesitation. No shame. Just love.
“More adventurous than a bronc rider?” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “That’s impressive.”
He grins. “Bronc riding is just an adrenaline hit. Natalie does high diving. Off real platforms. I go watch her and get vertigo just looking up.”
I laugh, genuinely. “Yeah, that’s a no from me. Heights are where I draw the line.”
“She says the same thing about bulls and horses,” he adds. “Tells me I’m nuts for climbing on animals bred to throw me off.”
“She’s got a point.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
The conversation flows so easily I almost forget we’ve just met.
There’s something disarming about Nash. Like he means what he says and doesn’t hide behind it.
And sitting beside him in that truck, listening to him talk about his kid like she hung the moon?
It makes me wonder if I’ve been measuring men against all the wrong things.
The steakhouse is tucked just off the main drag in the Fort Worth Stockyards.
Brick exterior, rustic wood beams, the kind of place where the waitstaff calls you honey, and the steak knives look like they could gut a wild hog.
The hostess knows Nash by name and leads us to a private corner booth near the window, all warm amber light and clinking glassware.
The smells—seared meat, garlic butter, something sweet on the grill—wrap around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed.
Over dinner, the conversation never stumbles. He asks about my writing. Not just what I’m working on, but what I want to write. What stories light me up. What I’d do if there were no limits.
“No one’s ever asked me that,” I admit around a bite of perfectly medium-rare ribeye.
“Maybe they should’ve,” he says, looking at me like I’m a question he wants to learn by heart.
He tells me about the hardest bronc he ever rode and the worst fall he ever took. About growing up in a house full of brothers, where competition was baked into the walls, and how Natalie changed everything.
“She made me braver,” he says, his voice softening. “Not in the arena. But in life.”
There’s a stillness in that moment. A quiet kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for anything but lingers in the space between words.
When we finish our meal, he insists on paying, waving off my half-hearted protest with a wink. “You got the quote. Let me get the steak.”
We step back out into the warm night air, the sky dusted with stars and the low hum of music drifting from a nearby bar. People spill out into the street, boots tapping against the pavement, laughter echoing from the open doors.
Nash glances over, then back at me. “You ever go two-stepping?”
I lift a brow. “You asking if I know how, or if I’m willing?”
He grins. “I’m asking if you’ll let me spin you around the floor for a song or two.”
I laugh, my heart light for the first time in what feels like forever. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Are you any good?”
He leans in just enough that I feel the heat of his breath when he says, low and easy, “Guess you’ll have to come find out.”
I don’t even hesitate. “Let’s dance.”
The music spills into the street as we approach the dancehall. It’s upbeat country with a fast tempo, something about whiskey and bad decisions. The wooden floors inside are worn smooth by a thousand boots before ours, and the air smells like spilled beer, old stories, and warm cologne.
Nash doesn’t ask.
He just takes my hand and leads me onto the dance floor.
The band shifts into a two-step beat, and suddenly, we’re moving. His palm firm at the small of my back, his other hand cradling mine like it belongs there. I let him lead, my body falling into rhythm with his easily, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
He spins me once, and I laugh. His grin is wide, teeth white against the dark of his beard-shadowed jaw, and I swear every woman in the place just turned to look.
But he’s only looking at me.
“Not bad, Stone,” he says, pulling me back in close.
“You either, Kimzey,” I shoot back, breath catching when our chests nearly touch.
The song winds down, and the band’s frontman says something about “slowing it down for the lovers out there tonight.” The next notes are soft, low, something old and honey-sweet with a steel guitar lacing through it.
I expect Nash to step back. Give me the out.
But he doesn’t.
He just lifts our joined hands, steps forward, and pulls me flush against him.
My breath catches. We sway, chest to chest, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
His hand at my lower back isn’t pushy, like he could hold me like this all night.
It’s quiet between us now, but not awkward.
Not stiff. Just the kind of quiet that makes you feel seen.
His thumb brushes lazy circles against the curve of my waist.
“You look good in my arms,” he murmurs, just above the music.
I tilt my head to look up at him. “You rehearse that?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
I smile, biting my bottom lip. “No. I’d still like it.”
We keep dancing, the space between us nonexistent, our steps slow and easy. And for a moment, everything else fades. The dust of Broken Heart Creek, the ache of Will’s name in my chest, the chaos of wanting too much and never asking for enough.
Here, with Nash? It’s simple. Not because it’s empty but because it doesn’t come with strings wound too tight they choke. Just warmth. And the feeling of something that could grow into more.
When the song fades out, we don’t move. Not at first.
We’re still standing there, pressed together, our hands still where the music left them. His at the small of my back, mine curled against his chest like my body forgot it ever belonged anywhere else.
Nash tilts his head, just slightly. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“Phern.”
It’s not a question. It’s a warning. And an invitation. I don’t say anything. I just rise onto my toes, my fingers tightening in his shirt.
And when he kisses me—
It’s slow. Like he’s tasting the possibility. His lips are warm and certain, not rushed, not hungry. Like he’s been thinking about it since the moment I stepped into the lobby in that black dress and now he’s finally letting himself have it.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got.
Just enough heat to hint at what’s waiting underneath, just enough softness to make it linger.
His hand curves around the side of my neck, pulling me just a little closer, deepening it for a breathless, perfect moment.
The room falls away. All I feel is this.
But I hear someone whisper, “Is that Nash Kimzey?”
And then— click.
Close. Too close.
I pull back slightly, blinking.
A woman with a phone is standing a few feet away, pretending to check her notifications like she didn’t just capture the exact second my world tilted on her phone.
Nash notices too. His jaw tightens, and he lowers his hand slowly, eyes scanning the crowd.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry. I usually don’t…”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though my heart is racing. Not from the kiss.
From the fallout. Because I’ve lived this before. And I know how fast one photo can turn everything sideways.
“Want to get out of here?” Nash asks, his voice low, his eyes cutting briefly to a table near the dance floor.
A group of women are watching us. Some whispering, one very obviously not hiding the fact she’s zooming in on her phone.
My stomach twists.
“Yeah,” I say, straightening the strap of my dress. “Let’s go.”
We weave through the crowd without saying much, his hand lightly touching the small of my back as we move. There’s nothing aggressive about it. Just a quiet anchor. A check-in.
Once we’re outside, the night air hits like a sigh. It’s cooler now, the sky velvet-dark, streetlamps casting long golden pools on the pavement. The music behind us fades into a muffled thrum.
Nash opens the passenger door of his truck for me without a word, and I slide in, heart still pounding. Not from the kiss. From what it means.