Page 30 of Nash

I can't stop the smile that spreads across my lips, or the dramatic way that I spin and fall straight into his arms, the relief that he actuallydoescatch me instead of letting me plummet to my tragic demise a palpable thing.

“Got you,” he says, his mouth hovering just an inch above mine.

Trust.

This is what actualrealtrust feels like.

I span the distance between our mouths, kissing him, not in a passionate frenzy but in a slow and compassionate, gratitude-filled way.

It's almost sweet, and he matches the pace, the heat streaking through my veins no less hot because of the softness in it.

Anticipation curls in my core, maybe a bitmorethan when we’re frantic for each other.

I don't know what it means.

I don't know whatanyof it means.

Except for the fact that Nash Stokehill is more surprising and perceptive than I've ever given him credit for.

I pull back, smiling at him as he shifts to steady me on my feet. “Come on,” I say nodding toward the viewing lens. “You have to see Cassiopeia,” I say. “She's stunning.”

An hour and a half later, we've grabbed coffee and are contentedly drinking it outside of my apartment, leaning against the hood of Nash’s car as we continue to chat and glance up at the sky.

“I don't think I'm ever going to be able to look at the stars the same way again,” Nash says.

“I know right? After seeing it through something so powerful?” I ask, glancing up at the sky. “I mean, they’re still beautiful, but there’s something about having that kind of instrument at your disposal. Feels like you're getting a glimpse of something few people do. It's special,” I say drawing my focus back to Nash. “Thank you again.”

“You don't have to keep thanking me,” he says. “I had a great time too.”

“We had too much fun,” I say, shaking my head as I take another sip of my coffee. “I only managed to record a few clips.” I was too distracted pretending Nash was my actual boyfriend who’d gone out of his way to plan something so special for Valentine’s Day.

“Isn't that a good thing?” he asks, taking a drink of his coffee. “Having such a great time you forget about work?”

I nod but can't help the concern threatening to steal all my postdate bliss. “You're not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don't know,” I say, shrugging. “Because this whole arrangement is about getting content for the page. To keep the followers happy. Keep them coming back and interacting so we can maintain attention from those big corporations offering deals.”

“I know exactly why we started this,” he says. “And I’ve gotten an amazing deal, thanks to you. Who cares if you got lost in the moment and didn't record every single second of this date? That wasn't the point of any of it. I genuinely wanted to do something that I knew would make you happy.”

Emotion clogs my throat, and I can't stop my heart fromscreamingout for him.

What is happening? Am I doing the one thing I'm not supposed to do, which is fall for this man? The sexy player of the Bangor Badgers?

I clear my throat, looking down at my coffee cup. “Well, thanks,” I say again because I honestly don't know what else to say. He's been so kind and genuine all night, and we haven't hadonedebate. Notonespicy little argument that would keep me up at night to think of the perfect retort for later.

I'm on uneven ground, and it's exciting and terrifying all at the same time.

We finish our coffees, having idle chitchat as we recount the night before he walks me to my door.

“I'm really glad we did this,” he says as he leans against my open doorway.

“Me too,” I say, my nerves tangling beneath my skin.

“It's pretty late,” he says, some sort of battle happening in his eyes. “I should probably take off.”

Tension coils between us, and my words get stuck in my throat, somewhere behind all the worries and doubts because Ireallywant to ask him to stay.

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