Page 3 of Take Me, Tex

He leads me up the porch steps, the wood solid beneath my feet, and flips on a single light that casts everything in warm yellow. The cabin opens into one big room that smells like cedar and wood smoke and something cooking that makes my stomach rumble embarrassingly loud.

The kitchen is small but efficient, with open shelves displaying mismatched dishes and cast iron pans that look well-used and well-loved. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, with a few glowing embers still winking in the grate. There's a well-worn couch with a quilt tossed over the back—handmade, with small, careful stitches in blues and greens that remind me of the forest outside.

Whiskey trots to a dog bed in the corner—a thick, cushioned affair that's clearly been claimed as her personal kingdom—and flops down with a dramatic sigh that makes me smile.

"You hungry?" Tex asks, already moving toward the stove. "I've got venison chili and cornbread."

My stomach growls so loudly I wince. The scent of chili hits me now, rich and spicy, with hints of cumin and something smoky that makes my mouth water. "That's not fair. You can't just rescue meandoffer chili."

His mouth twitches like it's thinking about a smile, and I catch a glimpse of something softer beneath that rugged exterior. "It's not gourmet, but it's hot."

‘Hot’ should be this guy’s middle name…

I sit at the small wooden table—the surface worn smooth by years of use—while he ladles chili into mismatched bowls. He hands me a spoon, and our fingers brush for just a moment. His skin is warm and slightly rough, and I feel that brief contact all the way up my arm.

The chili is incredible. Rich and hearty, with tender chunks of meat that practically melt on my tongue. The cornbread is golden and crumbly, with a hint of sweetness that balances the heat perfectly. We eat in comfortable silence, the kind you don't expect with strangers, with only the soft sounds of our spoons against ceramic and Whiskey's gentle snores.

When we're finished, I rinse the dishes in water that runs cold and clean from the tap, while he wipes down the table with methodical care. The simple domesticity of it feels surprisingly intimate, like we're two people who've been sharing evening chores for years instead of strangers who met an hour ago.

He disappears into a back room and returns with a folded T-shirt and a toothbrush still in its wrapper. The shirt is soft cotton, worn to perfect comfort, and when I shake it out, I can smell the clean scent of laundry detergent.

"You can take the couch," he says, setting the items on the armrest. His voice is rougher now, like he's fighting some internal battle. "Bathroom's through there."

I glance at the shirt in my hands. It's enormous, withTex & Whiskey’s Survival Guideprinted across the front in faded letters. The fabric is incredibly soft, worn thin in all the right places, and I run my fingers over the cotton like I'm memorizing its texture.

I open my mouth to thank him, but my curiosity gets the best of me. “What isTex & Whiskey’s Survival Guide?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets.Is that heat in his cheeks?“Um, I have a YouTube channel,” he says.

“You cover wilderness skills and stuff?”

He nods. “Yep.”

I catalogue the information for later. I’ll definitely be looking up his channel the first chance I get.

“Well, this is really kind of you," I say softly, meaning it more than I can express. "I promise I'm not usually this helpless."

"You're not helpless," he says, his voice carrying a conviction that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. "Your van broke down. That's all."

And with that, he nods once, a gesture that somehow manages to be both reassuring and final, and retreats to the back room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Leaving me standing in his living room with a racing heart, a soft shirt with his name on it, and the unsettling suspicion that I might sleep better on this mountain than I have in years.

Chapter 3

Tex

Whiskeyusuallywhinesatthe door just after dawn, her claws clicking against the hardwood as she paces, so I’m trained to wake up to let her out. This morning, I don’t hear her, though.

I roll out of bed and pull on a flannel shirt that's soft from years of washing. The fabric smells like cedar from the chest I keep it in, and the morning air is crisp for summer—that cool mountain breeze that seeps through the windows I always leave cracked open, carrying the scent of dew-damp pine and the distant promise of warming earth.

No reason to shut the world out when you've worked this hard to escape it.

I pad into the kitchen on bare feet, the floorboards cool and solid beneath my toes, and stop dead in my tracks.

Nora is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, with Whiskey wedged beside her like a furry space heater. My T-shirt hangs off one bare shoulder, revealing the elegant curve of her collarbone and the soft hollow at the base of her throat. Her legs are tucked under the quilt—that old blue and green one my grandmother made—and her hair is now a complete mess of dark waves that spread across the pillow like spilled ink.

She’s beautiful.

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