31. Nash
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Nash
I wake up alone.
That’s the first thing I register. Instead of the gray light leaking through the curtains and the ache behind my eyes or the dull weight in my chest. Just the absence beside me, loud as a slammed door.
The bed is cold where she should be.
Where, after last night, I guess a part of me thought she would be.
I lie there for a minute longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling, hoping everything might rearrange itself into a different outcome if I give it enough time. Last night might rewind if I don’t move.
It doesn’t.
My phone is on the nightstand, face down. I don’t flip it over. I already know what’s waiting for me.
No message.
No explanation.
No I need time or I’m sorry or last night scared me.
Just silence.
Which is, somehow, worse than any of those.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there, elbows on my knees, head dropped forward. The room smells faintly of soap. My chest tightens. I took a bad breath and forgot how to let it out.
You said too much.
The thought lands clean and sharp, waiting for me to wake up.
I replay it anyway. Because of course I do.
The lane.
The tree.
The way she looked at me when I finally said it out loud. I’d cracked something open she’d been holding shut with both hands.
I love you.
I scrub a hand over my face, drag myself upright, and force my feet to the floor. The cold bites through my socks in the most unkind way.
Honesty. That’s what everyone says they want.
Be honest. Be vulnerable. Say the thing before it rots inside you.
Turns out there’s a fine line between honesty and a controlled demolition.
I dress on autopilot. Jeans, flannel, boots. Same as every other morning, as if routine might fool my body into thinking this is just another day. I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause.
I look wrecked. Worse than hungover—my eyes too sharp, as if I didn’t sleep so much as argue with myself all night.
I don’t know what I expected. That she’d leave me a roadmap for how to fix this? A checklist for how not to be in love with the wrong person at the wrong time?
I shove the phone into my pocket and head out.
The ranch is awake before I am.
The sky is pale and brittle, winter sunlight doing that thing where it looks bright but offers no warmth.
Frost clings to the fence rails, and the barn looms, a shape I’ve known my whole life.
Rusty trots toward me as soon as he hears the door, tail wagging as if nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Lucky bastard.
“Morning,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears.
He leans into it, content, trusting.
I wish I had that kind of certainty.
Inside, Boone is already at the counter with a mug of coffee, scrolling his phone with the kind of frown that means either local politics or cattle prices are misbehaving again. Dallas is at the table, laptop open, fingers flying, glasses perched low on his nose.
They both look up when I come in.
Boone’s gaze sharpens immediately. “You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, grabbing a mug and pouring coffee I probably shouldn’t drink but absolutely need.
Dallas doesn’t smile. He studies me instead, head tilted slightly. “Did you sleep?”
“Some,” I say.
It’s a clean lie. Efficient. I’ve had practice.
Boone snorts. “You disappear halfway through the dance, come home late, and now you look like you lost a fight with your own conscience. That wasn’t ‘some.’”
I pause with the mug halfway to my mouth.
My head is still buzzing, my thoughts bruised. Everything feels tender, exposed.
“You get hit by a truck?” Boone adds. “Or did you finally learn you can’t outdrink Hank Lawson?”
Dallas’s fingers still.
“You vanished,” he says quietly. “Tessa too. Maeve asked where you both went.”
I set the mug down because my hand isn’t as still as I want it to be. My mouth opens on instinct.
And for one terrifying heartbeat, I almost tell them about Old Mill Road, the tree, the way saying I love you felt like stepping off a cliff and somehow hitting solid ground.
About how she looked at me afterward. She wanted me and was terrified of that wanting in equal measure.
Almost tell them that this isn’t pretend anymore, that it hasn’t been for a while, that I don’t know how to walk this back.
The words crowd my throat, sharp and reckless and aching to be said.
Then shame slams into me, hot and unforgiving.
Because how do you explain that your fake engagement turned real in the most inconvenient way possible?
That you let it spiral because pretending was easier than admitting you were falling?
That you might’ve just lit a match under a land dispute that’s been smoldering for a century?
My jaw tightens.
“I’m fine,” I say instead, the words stiff and unconvincing even to my own ears.
Boone raises a brow slowly. “Hmmm.”
Dallas watches me over the rim of his glasses, far too perceptive. “You don’t look fine.”
“I’m just tired,” I snap, then soften it quickly. “Long night. Too much noise.”
Boone leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t do ‘too much noise.’ You do avoidance.”
I huff a short laugh. “Wow. Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“I’m serious,” Boone says. “You’re acting like someone dropped something heavy on you and you’re pretending it didn’t crack.”
Dallas closes his laptop with a quiet click. “If this is about the engagement—”
“It’s not,” I cut in too fast.
Both of them clock it.
Boone’s expression shifts, curiosity sharpening, more concerned. “Then what is it, Nash?”
My chest tightens.
I could tell them. Right now.
They’d listen.
They’d help.
They’d probably make it worse in entirely new and creative ways, but they wouldn’t leave me holding it alone.
The urge to unburden myself hits hard enough to make my eyes sting.
But the thought of dragging them into this mess, into her mess, into Long history and council politics and my own inability to keep my damn heart in check, stops me cold.
I shake my head once. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Boone studies me for a long beat. “You don’t have to handle everything by yourself.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
Dallas stands, carrying his mug to the sink. “You’ve been off since the night of the storm, I think.”
I force a shrug. “Cold weather does that.”
They both know I’m full of shit.
Boone sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’m not going to pry.”
Dallas adds, softer, “But if this is about more than a hangover, you don’t get points for martyrdom.”
I nod, because nodding is safer than speaking.
Boone pushes off the counter. “Eat something. Then get to work. Fence line’s still busted.”
I grab a piece of toast, mostly to give my hands something to do. “Yeah.”
As they move back into their routines, the kitchen fills with the familiar sounds of normal life. Coffee. Footsteps. The quiet hum of the ranch coming to life.
I stand there, toast untouched, heart still racing from the things I didn’t say.
Because the truth is sitting right there, loud and insistent:
I’m far from fine, and I’m definitely out of control.
And I have no idea how to explain that.
So I swallow it down.
Again.
The fence line gives me something to do with my hands. It’s physical. Posts to check. Wire to tighten. Tasks with clear outcomes. Either the fence holds or it doesn’t. No ambiguity. No emotional landmines buried under polite conversation.
I focus on the rhythm. Walk, check, adjust, move on.
But my mind doesn’t cooperate.
Tessa’s face keeps intruding. The way she looked at me right before she ran.
Conflicted.
I can handle anger. I can handle rejection. I’ve lived my whole life understanding rivalry and boundaries and lines you don’t cross.
Confusion is harder.
Confusion means she felt something too.
I lean against a post and stare out at the pasture, breath fogging the air. The land looks the same. Calm. Neutral. It doesn’t care that everything underneath it is suddenly unstable.
What if I ruined it?
Not just us. Everything.
What if Thomas uses this as leverage? What if the council decides the engagement was manipulation all along? What if Boone and Dallas find out and realize I let personal feelings contaminate something that affects all of us?
What if honesty was selfish?
The thought sits heavy.
I straighten and force myself back to work. By the time I finish the fence line, my hands are numb, and my shoulders ache, but the noise in my head has quieted just enough to function.