Chapter Nineteen
They pulled into Nash’s driveway just as the sky split open.
Lightning cracked across the ridge, so close the whole holler lit white, thunder chasing fast enough Cassie felt it in her chest. By the time they hit the porch, they were soaked—hair plastered to their faces, clothes clinging like second skin.
Nash barely made it through the doorway before stripping—leather, shirt, boots hitting the floor in a trail behind him.
Cassie toed off her sneakers. Her jeans hung heavy, her shirt streaked with blood, puke, and God knew what else. She yanked it over her head, letting it fall with a wet slap.
When she looked up, Nash was already down to boxers. Rainwater traced the ink on his arms and chest, dripping down ridges of muscle, skin gleaming in the dim light. She watched him a moment, feeling more than a little unmoored.
I’m family, he’d barked at the nurse.
The words hadn’t left her since, tightening her chest every time they replayed. Truth or bluff—she couldn’t tell. What ached was how much she wanted them to be…true.
Nash straightened, catching her staring. His eyes swept over her, a grin tugging.
“Put that look away,” she muttered, fumbling with the button on her jeans. “I’m covered in puke and blood.”
Nash stepped in, brushing her hands aside. “Hold still,” he said, crouching low. He worked the soaked denim down her hips, peeling it from her legs and tossing it aside.
Still on his knees, his gaze dragged slowly up her body, his breathing roughening. He never looked away as he pressed his mouth to her hip, heat flaring where they touched. Then higher—another kiss against her stomach, his eyes still locked to hers.
Faster now, hungrier—his mouth climbed her body, each scrape of teeth and pull of his lips stealing her breath.
His hands slid higher, popping the clasp of her bra with practiced ease.
The straps slipped from her shoulders, and then his mouth closed around her breast, teeth grazing just hard enough to make her gasp.
God, she wanted it. Wanted him. They’d lost an entire day tangled up in each other, and still it hadn’t sated her.
Eleven years ago, she’d tried to move on—had to.
But Nash had crept in anyway. In dreams she never admitted to.
In thoughts she never welcomed. In the way Connor’s voice used to change whenever his stories drifted too close to him.
Maybe even in the walls she’d built against every man since—never letting them past the surface, never close enough to really know her, let alone hurt her.
With a growl, Nash surged up, arms locking beneath her thighs as he hauled her off the floor. Cassie’s legs cinched his waist, holding tight as her mouth crashed against his.
They stumbled into the wall, rattling a windowpane hard enough to jar her back to sanity.
“Wait.”
Her mouth tore from his, hand braced hard against his chest.
She wasn’t just stopping him—she was stopping herself. Years of silence, distance, every reason she’d given herself to hate him—it was painfully clear none of it mattered once they started touching. But touching—fucking—wasn’t going to fix what was still broken between them.
“Nash…wait.”
He slowed with a groan, mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing her pulse before he finally eased her back to her feet. His forehead settled against hers while rain tapped steadily against the windows, filling the silence neither of them seemed willing to break.
“We’ve always been really good at this part,” she eventually whispered. “It’s everything else we can’t seem to get right.”
Nash straightened, the heat of him leaving her all at once, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. Cassie folded her arms over her chest, bracing against the sudden loss of warmth—and the fight she knew was coming.
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “This the part where you tell me you’re leavin’?”
Her arms tightened. For a second, she almost let him believe it. Let him think she was already halfway gone. Instead, she closed her eyes briefly and shook her head.
“I haven’t booked a flight.”
His shoulders went rigid, then dropped. Dragging a hand over his mouth, he muttered, “What’s stoppin’ you?”
Cassie stared at him. He’d sulked when she left for college, talked shit about New York, guilt-tripped her all the way to the bus station—and then ignored her calls for three straight weeks.
But this Nash sounded different. Almost like he was afraid of the answer.
Cassie bent for her jeans on the floor, digging through the pockets. Her phone, the cassette, and finally the folded note. Straightening, she held it out to him.
Nash’s gaze dropped, going still.
“You remember writing it?”
His jaw flexed. “Do now.”
“You remember what it says?”
“More or less.”
“Then take it.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “Ain’t mine.”
“Stubborn fuckin’ man,” Cassie muttered, unfolding the damp paper with slow, deliberate fingers.
She read aloud: “Tried calling you again today, but your number's disconnected.
Guess you changed it. Don't figure I got the guts to ask Con for the new one…
Don't think he'd give it anyway. Shit here ain't the same without you. Keep thinking about the last time I saw you. Didn't know it'd be the last, and I said all that stupid shit instead of just holding you like you wanted. Probably do a lot of shit different if I could. If you’re gone for good, I get it. But if you’re not…”
Her throat closed on the last line. She swallowed hard, forcing it out.
“I’ll be here.”
Nash only stared at her, shoulders pulled tight, his expression unreadable. Outside, the storm raged harder now, rain hammering against the windows. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low. Rough.
“Still here.”
Cassie’s breath caught. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, unsure what she’d meant to say. Her eyes closed instead, his words sinking in, not sure whether they were mending her back together or splitting her open all over again.
His hand came up, brushing away the tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. His thumb lingered, warm against the chill, and Cassie turned into his touch, her fingers catching around his wrist.
“Go get dry,” he murmured. “Shower. Wear whatever you want. I’ll toss your clothes in the wash.”
Cassie nodded, her hand slipping from him slowly.
Nash pulled back just as slow.
She hovered in the foyer, watching him disappear down the hall, his words echoing.
Still here.
Fresh from a shower, Cassie found Nash in the living room, crouched beside the coffee table, untangling the cord of an old boom box.
He looked up when she entered, his eyes catching on the oversized hoodie that nearly reached her knees, the sweatpants cinched tight at her waist—his clothing. His gaze lingered, heavy, before pulling back.
“Figured you might wanna play that tape,” he said. “Had this old thing in the garage. No idea if it works.”
“I know this ol' thing,” she said, kneeling beside him, her finger trailing over the beaten-up boom box, streaked with dried paint and grime. “Mav kept it at the shop.”
“Sure did. What else was the old man gonna use for his Willie tapes?”
Cassie pulled the cassette from her pocket and, instead of handing it over, just stared down at it.
Her mother…God. Even with Connor gone, the house stripped bare, and Nash dredging up old wounds, she still hadn’t let herself go anywhere near her mother’s memory.
But now, in the quiet after the funeral, in the hush of whatever this was between her and Nash…
Cassie’s hand tightened around the cassette. Maybe she could finally—
“Cas.”
Her eyes lifted to Nash.
“It’s all right to miss her,” he said, then grimaced like the words tasted wrong. “And still be mad. Ain’t gotta be one or the other.”
He scrubbed a hand over his beard and exhaled through his nose. “Shoulda said that a long time ago, but…” He shook his head once. “Truth is, I didn’t know it myself. Not ’til…hell—”
“Not ’til Con.”
Cassie’s teeth sank into the inside of her cheek, copper flooding her tongue. She knew he was right—but knowing it didn’t make it hurt less.
“Connor didn’t leave on purpose.” The words splintered as they tumbled free, catching on a sharp breath. “He didn’t…he didn’t just leave—”
She broke off, voice turning ragged. “No. He did. He left. Just fucking left. And now…now…”
The words came faster, harder.
“All I can see is him on that table lookin’ like a skeleton, and the goddamn wreck he made of our house and—” Her breath caught. “It’s not even our house anymore.”
Her throat burned, but the words kept spilling out. “And he knew. He knew I couldn’t come back here and not fuckin' drown in it. He knew, and he left anyway. Just like she did. Just like they all did. Just like everybody does.
As her last words rang through the room, a faint click cut through the silence. The reels spun, a reedy hum slipping from the speakers as Coal Miner’s Daughter began to play.
Cassie glanced down, startled. The cassette was gone, replaced by Nash’s hand wrapped firm around hers. When she looked up, his eyes were waiting, holding her as the song filled the room.
Her mother had sung it constantly. Cassie could see her now—dark curls pinned up, hips swaying as she danced around the house, broom in hand.
“This was her favorite,” Cassie whispered.
Nash merely nodded, his grip firm, his eyes never leaving hers.
The tape rolled on. Jolene.
Cassie’s lips twitched despite herself. She could see them plain as day—her mama two rooms away, belting the words at the top of her lungs; her daddy in his chair, shaking his head and muttering—Take note, Fiddlebean—that’s your mama’s way of remindin’ me she coulda done better.
“She used to sing this when she was mad at Daddy,” Cassie murmured. “And they’d always end up kissin’ halfway through.”
Then—Wild Mountain Thyme.
In her mind it was her mother’s version—the way she made it swell and sigh on the fiddle, bending notes, letting phrases linger before carrying them forward. Slow and unhurried, half hymn, half lullaby.
She mouthed along beneath her breath, catching only fragments before emotion stole the rest away.
Rank Stranger played next. Not her mama’s favorite, but her daddy’s. Every Sunday evening after supper, he’d sit on the porch swing, a cigarette forgotten between his fingers while Mama played it on her fiddle just for him.
Rocky Top filled the room and Cassie smiled tremulously. Mama’s laughter echoed, bright and ringing, as she danced Cassie in dizzy circles while Daddy and Connor clapped along in the background.
The tape stuttered, then—You Are My Sunshine.
The shift hit like a wave, pulling her back to bedtime—her mama’s voice low in the dark, a work-roughened hand smoothing her hair as the melody carried her to sleep.
For a moment, it was so vivid Cassie could almost feel her presence, smell the mix of cigarette smoke and dishwater that always clung to her…
The song cut off abruptly.
“Okay, Cas…if you’re hearin’ this, it means you’re sad.”
Cassie’s eyes snapped to Nash—he looked just as startled.
Connor.
His voice was younger than she remembered, carrying that rough edge of eighteen—half man, half boy, trying too hard to sound grown.
“I made you this ’cause Mama always said music helps when it hurts. Figured you might be needin’ that now.”
A pause. The faint scrape of him shifting in his seat.
“Just be glad I ain’t singin’ along. ’Cuz what did Mama always say I sounded like—”
Cassie’s lips curved, the answer slipping out of her, soft and broken:
“—a bullfrog with its throat tore out.”
Another pause, his voice softening. “That’s it. Love you, kid.”
The tape whirred on, reels spinning into silence. Outside, the storm continued—rain hammering, wind howling.
Cassie’s head began to shake, small at first, then harder, as if she could push all the feelings away. Her lips parted, a whisper scraping free.
“I miss—”
Her voice cracked.
She tried again, the words breaking apart. “I miss…them.”
Heat blurred her vision. Tears spilled fast, faster than she could wipe them away. A sob ripped free, startling her into another, then another, until her whole body gave out.
Nash caught her as she folded, dragging her into his lap. His arms locked around her; she buried her face in his chest, sobs tearing through her until she could barely breathe...
until exhaustion finally claimed her.