Chapter 11 Nash
ELEVEN
NASH
I should be asleep.
That’s what a normal man does after a day of busted fence lines, suspicious trucks, and pretending his entire childhood heartbreak is just a “cover story.” He sleeps. He lets his body power down.
Instead, I’m awake in a dark guest room, staring at the ceiling like it might hand me absolution if I stare hard enough.
The house is quiet in that old ranch way—wood settling, the faint hum of the AC, a far-off horse shifting in the paddock.
Every sound is familiar enough to be soothing, and still my nerves refuse to unclench.
My mind keeps circling the same two things like a working dog that doesn’t know when to quit:
A clean cut wire under my flashlight.
Delaney’s breath catching in the barn.
The barn.
I can still feel it in my hands—how close we stood, how the air between us went hot and tight, how she looked at me like she was angry at herself for wanting me.
How she said we couldn’t. How I agreed because it was the right call, because the ranch is on fire and we’re supposed to be the men and women who don’t add gasoline.
But the second I walked away, something in my chest started tearing at the bars.
Because agreeing in the barn felt like putting my mouth to a lie and drinking it down.
I told her, mission first.
I meant it. I still do.
But I’m not built to pretend I don’t feel something when it’s clawing its way through my ribs. I did that overseas—shoved everything down until it became a hard knot I carried like extra gear. It kept me alive. It didn’t make me whole.
And Delaney… Delaney makes me want whole.
I push up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet find the floor without a sound. I sit there for a beat, elbows on my knees, head bowed, breathing through it like it’s a craving.
Don’t.
That’s the responsible voice.
You promised.
That’s the honorable one.
And then there’s the other voice—the one that never shut up, not once, not when I was half a world away and trying to forget what her laugh sounded like.
Go to her.
I scrub a hand down my face and stand.
The hallway is dim, lit by the small lamp Mrs. Coleman leaves on like she’s warding off bad dreams. I pad across the worn floorboards, shoulders loose, senses sharp. Habit. Training. Fear.
I stop outside Delaney’s door.
My heart stutters like a rookie.
Which is embarrassing. I’ve stared down things that would turn most men white. I’ve kept my composure when the world was coming apart in smoke and metal and screaming.
But a closed door and a girl I’ve loved since I was twelve?
I lift my hand and hover.
If I knock, there’s no un-knocking.
If she opens the door, everything changes.
My knuckles tap the wood anyway—soft, but sure.
Silence. A breath. The faint slide of bare feet.
The latch clicks.
Delaney opens the door a crack, then wider when she sees it’s me.
She’s in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair loose and thick and dark around her face. No mascara. No armor. Just her, soft in the lamplight, eyes wide with sleep and confusion and something that looks like she’s been thinking too.
“Nash?” she whispers. “Is something wrong?”
My throat tightens. My voice comes out low, rough, honest. “Yeah,” I say. “Me.”
Her fingers curl around the door edge, knuckles pale for a second. “We said—”
“I know what we said.” I take a breath, steady myself like I’m stepping onto a wire. “And I meant it. I still mean it. But I also…” My gaze flicks to her mouth and back to her eyes. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t exist.”
Her swallow is visible. She’s nervous. So am I.
I step closer—slow. No pressure. Giving her every chance to shut the door in my face and save us both from the fallout.
She doesn’t move.
So I cross the threshold, careful, and ease the door shut behind me. The click is quiet, but it sounds like a decision.
Her room smells like her—clean soap and warm sheets and a hint of old paper, like she’s got books tucked into the corners of her life no matter where she goes. It’s the kind of scent that gets into a man’s lungs and makes him want to stay.
Delaney stands with her back to the door now, chin tipped up even as her shoulders tense. “Talk to me,” she says, voice soft but stubborn. “What is this?”
I take a step closer. Another. I stop an arm’s length away.
“This is me being done with the pretending,” I say.
“We agreed in the barn we couldn’t act on it.
That we had to keep it clean. Professional.
For the ranch.” I exhale, slow and heavy.
“I walked away thinking I could do that. Thinking I could just… lock it down the way I lock everything down.”
Her brows knit, conflict flickering across her face. “And now?” she asks.
“Now I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words scrape out of me like they’ve been caught behind my teeth for years. “Not the cover story. Not the show. You. The real you.”
Her eyes shine like she hates that.
I keep going anyway, because I didn’t come here to half-ass it.
“I’ve wanted you for years, Laney,” I whisper.
“Not in some vague, nostalgic way. In the way that kept me alive on nights I didn’t want to be alive.
” I swallow hard. “I tried to kill it. I tried to move on. I tried to date other women like that would rewrite the part of me you’re carved into. ”
Her breath catches.
“It didn’t,” I say. “It never did.”
She lifts a hand like she might stop me, then hesitates. Her fingers hover in the space between us, trembling.
“You’re scared,” she murmurs, like she can read the pulse in my throat.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Because I know what it’s like to ruin something good. And I know this ranch is under threat. And I know the timing is trash.” A short, humorless laugh escapes me. “But I also know I’m tired of living like the only thing I’m allowed to feel is control.”
Delaney’s mouth parts. Her voice comes out small. “What do you want, Nash?”
The question hits me hard. Simple. Dangerous.
“I want to kiss you,” I say. Honest as a blade. “And I want you to tell me yes.”
Her eyes drop to my mouth and linger.
It’s a silent war in her face—responsibility versus want, past pain versus present heat. I don’t move. I don’t crowd her. I just wait.
Then she whispers, barely audible, “Yes.”
Everything in me goes still for a heartbeat—like the world takes one breath and holds it.
I lift my hand slowly, palm open, giving her the chance to flinch.
She doesn’t.
So I cup her jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the line where her cheek meets her chin. Her skin is warm. Real. “Laney,” I murmur, and her lashes flutter like her name is a touch.
Then I kiss her.
The kiss is gentle, because ten years of wanting doesn’t make me reckless—it makes me reverent. I press my mouth to hers like I’m making up for every moment I didn’t get, every almost that got stolen from us.
She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and my self-control slips a notch.
Her hands rise to my chest, palms flat, fingers splaying like she’s anchoring herself. I feel her heartbeat under her touch—fast, frantic, alive.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
Her lips are swollen already, eyes blown wide. She looks like she’s trying to remember how to breathe.
“You okay?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, but her voice shakes. “Don’t stop.”
That’s all it takes.
I kiss her again—deeper this time, slower and hungrier. Her mouth opens under mine, and the heat between us turns electric. She grips my shirt and tugs, pulling me closer until there’s no air left between our bodies.
I brace my hand on the door beside her head, the other at her waist, holding her like I’ve been waiting my whole life to be allowed to.
Her fingers slide up my neck into my hair, and when she pulls me down harder, something feral kicks in low and hot.
I kiss her like a man who’s done being good.
She answers like she’s done being careful.
We break for breath, foreheads almost touching, both of us shaking a little.
“This is going to make everything messier,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “But I’m done pretending I don’t want the mess if it’s you.”
Her laugh is breathless and broken. “God,” she murmurs, and then she kisses me first—like she heard her own fear and decided to swing at it.
That does me in.
I slide my hand from her waist up her side, stopping at her ribs, feeling her inhale. I don’t go further than she invites. I don’t take what she doesn’t give. But the way she presses into my touch is its own kind of permission.
I guide her backward—slow—until the backs of her knees bump the edge of the bed.
She sits, tugging me down with her like she’s claiming her right to want me too.
I hover an inch away, searching her face one more time.
“Still yes?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “Still yes.”
So I kiss her again, and the bed dips as I shift closer, one knee braced beside her, careful not to crowd, careful not to trap. My hand slides to her thigh—warm skin, a shiver—and stops there, thumb circling lightly as if my body is memorizing her the way my mind has been trying to for years.
Her breath stutters. Her hands sweep over my shoulders, down my back, fingers digging in like she’s making sure I’m real. I remove my shirt in a flash and her fingernails sink into my skin. It turns me on.
“You have no idea,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Then tell me,” she whispers.
“I’ve thought about you in places I shouldn’t have survived,” I admit softly. “I’ve heard your laugh in the silence after a bad day. I’ve carried the idea of you like a compass.” I kiss her again, slower. “And I have wanted this—wanted you—so long it feels like my bones know you.”
Her eyes shine. Her voice is barely a thread.
“I hated you,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I missed you,” she corrects, fierce.
“I know that too.”
I kiss her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth—little touches that feel intimate as confession. She makes a small, helpless sound and threads her fingers into my hair again, pulling me back to her mouth like she needs more.
I give her more. I give her so much fucking more.
We kiss until time blurs—until the outside world, with its Strouds and sabotage and shadows, fades to a distant hiss.
Our hands roam in careful, hungry exploration, learning what changed and what didn’t.
Our breathing gets ragged. Our bodies press closer, heat building, want turning into something that feels inevitable.
I pull back, panting, forehead resting against hers.
“Laney,” I whisper. “Tell me to stop if you want me to stop.”
Her eyes meet mine, clear and burning. “Don’t stop,” she says.
The words hit like permission and surrender and trust.
And I take her hand, lace our fingers together, and ease us down onto the bed as if I’m laying something precious to rest. The room is dark except for the little lamp glow, casting soft shadows over her face. She looks at me like I’m not a mistake—like I’m something she’s choosing.
That wrecks me in the best way.
I kiss her again, slower now, pouring everything I never said into the pressure of my mouth. Her arms wrap around me, holding me close like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I remove her clothing and she removes mine. I press against her, my body harder than a rock.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I push my cock deep inside her. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this.”
“Nash, you have no clue. I’ve wanted you for so long.” Her eyes widen. “And you’re so much bigger than I ever imagined.”
This makes me proud, and I smile down at her. “Is this what you wanted?” I thrust harder into her, filling her up. “Is this how you imagined me?” I push deeper.
Her legs wrap around my waist. “Yes, Nash. Yes.”
“You’re so fucking pretty, Laney.” I want to spill my heart to her. Tell her how in love with her I am, but I keep my mouth shut and focus on the pleasure.
My dick’s hard, and I try not to lose control. I keep working, letting my cock fill her up. She feels so fucking good.
We move together, finding a rhythm that feels like coming home after being lost for years. She matches me thrust for thrust. Her breath catches. My name breaks from her lips like it’s been waiting there.
Outside, the ranch is still under threat.
But in here, in this room, in this moment, there is only her.
Only us.
And when the night finally tips past the point where restraint turns into something else—when the heat crests and the world narrows to breath and heartbeat and the truth of her in my arms—I let the rest of the details stay ours.
Because this isn’t a conquest.
It’s not a win.
It’s a promise I’m finally keeping.
After, I stay close, my forehead against her temple, listening to her breathing slow. My hand rests at her waist, thumb moving in small, absent circles like I’m reassuring myself she’s still here.
“I’m not leaving,” I murmur.
She shifts, half-asleep, and whispers back, “You better not.”
And in the dark, with danger outside and peace inside, I make myself a vow I’ll live by: Whoever is messing with this ranch… is going to learn what happens when you threaten the place where Delaney Coleman’s heart lives.
And now?
That includes me.