Page 112 of The Lilac River

And that scent; clean soap, leather, pine, hit me square in the memory.

“H-hey,” I managed, completely blindsided by the rush of him. “You okay?”

He stepped forward and rested his hand gently on Bertie’s head, eyes locked on me. And then he smiled, a slow, private thing that undid me. That smile told me he remembered it all: every kiss, every night in the lavender field, every heartbreak. And that he still wanted more.

“I’m great,” he said, voice smooth and warm like honey over warm whisky. “How are you?” His tongue swept lazily across his lower lip, and I swear I forgot how to breathe. That small gesture shouldn't have been so devastating, so intimate that it felt like foreplay right there on his front porch. I watched, mesmerized, as his mouth curved into a knowing smile, and I couldn't help wondering if he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

I forgot how to breathe for a second. “Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“You just asked me that.”

I laughed awkwardly, heat creeping up my neck. “Right. Sorry.”

Nash chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. A sound I used to fall asleep to, his body curled around mine like a shield against the world. He stepped aside, the movement revealing the familiar hallway beyond.

“Come on in.”

My heart pulled tight in my chest.

With Bertie still wrapped around my legs, getting through the door was a challenge.

“Bertie,” Nash said, firm but kind, “let Miss. Gray come inside.”

She grinned up at me and released me with a little bounce. “Sorry, Miss. Gray!”

As I stepped into the house, the warmth hit me like a wave; home-cooked dinner, citrus cleaner, and something sweet wafting in from the kitchen. The walls were still the same honey-toned wood, but there was laughter in the air now, new memories steeping into old ones.

Wilder appeared beside Nash, a glint in his eye.

“Well, well,” he said, winking. “It’s like a scene from one of those Hallmark movies. The one where the girl comes back and the guy’s got a kid but he still lo?—”

“Okay, Wild,” Nash said sharply, clearly not amused.

Wilder raised his hands in surrender. “Aren’t you supposed to be carving the chicken?” Nash asked.

“I gave it to Gunner,” he said, unfazed. “He’s better at it.”

“And he is,” Nash agreed. “Last time you carved the chicken it looked like you used a chainsaw.”

“And yet you ask me again,” Wilder retorted, smirking at me. “Lily, help me out here, any logic in that?”

I laughed despite myself. “None at all.”

He grinned. “Didn’t think so. Oh, and before I forget, talked to Petey about a car for you. Think there’s one coming up. Some lady’s upgrading.”

Nash’s head snapped around. “What car?”

Wilder gave me a pointed look. “Have you seen what she’s driving?”

“Hey!” I said indignantly. “That’s my car!”

“Yeah, but what’s it got to do withyou?” Nash growled at his brother.

Wilder didn’t flinch. “Offered to help. Someone’s gotta take care of her.”

“You could ride one of Uncle Gunner’s horses, Miss. Gray!” Bertie piped up from the corner. “Or Daddy could drive you!”

The room shifted. Charged. Nash’s eyes met mine and something unspoken passed between us, something hot and protective and terribly real.

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