Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I take a deep breath, grab my overnight bag, and walk up the path. Before I can even knock, the door swings open.
Sam fills the doorway—barefoot, a faded T-shirt from a brewery in Wilmington, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. The minute he looks at me, all the tension I’ve been carrying melts away.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey yourself,” he replies—and then he’s kissing me.
It’s not tentative. It’s a full-bodied, soul-stealing kiss that hits with the force of knowing time’s running short. My bag thuds to the floor. His hands slide to my waist, then up, and I clutch his shirt to pull him closer.
“We’re going to bed right now,” he murmurs against my mouth. “No arguing. I’m not letting you out of said bed till you’re late for that flight.”
I laugh, breathless, but whatever protest I might’ve had dies when his mouth finds mine again.
He carries me down the hallway and clothes trail behind us, a breadcrumb path of cotton and denim.
When we reach his bed, everything slows. There’s no frantic urgency, no rush to get anywhere. Just the soft slide of skin, the quiet exhale when he touches me like he’s tracing a map he’s afraid to lose. He whispers my name once, rough and reverent, and when I answer, it’s not with words but a sound that belongs only to him.
It’s tender. Intimate. The kind of lovemaking that blurs time—half goodbye, half promise.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the quiet. The sheets are warm, the ceiling fan hums, and Sam’s hand drifts in slow circles over my hip. The glow from the bedside lamp paints his skin in amber light, catching the faint, but sad, smile.
“I hate that you’re leaving,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I whisper. “I hate it too.”
“But it’s… the right move.”
Is it? It’s something I’m still not sure about. I worked so hard for this, and it feels like something I’m supposed to do, and yet part of it feels wrong.
“Sure it is,” I manage to say, because that feels somewhat right.
Sam squeezes me. “You’re too damn smart not to chase the big things. Just means I’ll have to find reasons to come visit you.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “You hate traffic.”
“I’d drive through fire ants if it meant seeing you.”
That’s enough to undo me. My throat tightens, and I trace the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He freezes for a beat, then rolls toward me, eyes searching mine like he’s waiting for me to take it back. When I don’t, he exhales slowly and deeply.
“Say it again,” he says.
“I love you.”
He smiles—real, wrecked, beautiful. “Good. Because I love you too.”
I feel the tears sting and laugh a little through them. “Now what do we do with that?”
He brushes his thumb under my chin until I look at him. “We hold on to it. We don’t panic. We figure it out one day at a time.”
I rest my hand over his heart, feeling it thud steadily beneath my palm. “You make it sound easy.”
“It won’t be,” he says. “But we’re both tenacious as hell. It will work out.”
A tide of doubt rolls through me, followed quickly by panic. The words are good and I want to believe them, but the thought of being away from Sam is dreadful.
I push it aside and snuggle into his embrace. The quiet stretches between us, full of warmth and ache. I press a kiss to his chest, and he tightens his arm around me until the whole world feels small enough to fit in this bed.
Tomorrow, I’ll get on a plane.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
But tonight, love feels big enough to bridge the distance and I have to hold on to that thought.
CHAPTER 23
Sam
This is my first visit to Nashville, and I must say—I’m a big fan. The whole city hums—neon guitars, honky-tonk laughter, and the faint twang of a pedal steel somewhere down the block.
Derek and I are at a bar that’s equal parts smokehouse and music joint, wedged in at a high-top table. A local guy with a voice like gravel is singing about his girl leaving and his dog dying, and the air’s thick enough with hickory smoke to cure humans along with the pork and beef BBQ they’re serving.
Derek looks wildly out of place. His suit’s tailored, his cuff links catching the bar lights, his hair perfectly in place. I’m the opposite—jeans, boots and a faded Carolina Cold Fury T-shirt I’ve had since the hockey team first came to reside permanently in our state.
We make quite the pair, and Derek has garnered his fair share of admiring lady stares, probably because he looks so different.
He tips back a beer and grins at me over the rim of his pint glass. “You realize you crushed that interview today, right? The host was practically swooning by the end.”