Page 26 of Nashville Lights

She catches me staring. Heat rises to her face, at my expression, maybe, and she bites her lip.

“Rox?”

“Yeah?”

I don’t know what I’m about to say. Something, though. Something real.

The screen door slams open and Dakota walks out. “Mission accomplished. The princess is clean, snuggled into bed, all three nightlights are on and her two favorite stories have been dutifully read. But she wants to say goodnight to Uncle Nate. You ready, Rox?”

Roxie’s gaze is still fixed on me and she does her best to hide her curiosity. And her disappointment. At the unspoken words. “Oh. Yeah.” She adjusts her expression, smiling at Dakota. “Sure.”

But that’s the story of us, after all. All the things we’ve never said.

Or at least it was. Until now. Because I’ve made a decision that has already forged itself into my hot-beating heart.

“Bye, Nate.” There’s a long-buried sadness behind her smile I understand only too well. “Thanks for the wine.”

“See you around, Roxie Tucker.” I didn’t mean to say it like that—the exact same words I said to her that night in the barn.

Roxie’s eyes are blue as all hell in the moonlight as she glances back at me.

She’s the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen.

And that old ember of regret has suddenly lit itself into a bonfire, like a fucking phoenix rising from the ashes, transforming itself into resolve, lust and the kind of true love that only happens once.

Fuck regret. The memory of the girl I’ve always loved ghosted around me for years. And now the goddess who just turned up on my doorstep is quite literally the woman of my dreams, one and the same.

I want her. I want everything.

She’s real.

She’s perfect.

And she’s here. For the entire weekend.

It’s complicated. She’s insanely busy and I’m a workaholic with a six-year-old in tow.

Then simplify it. Figure it out. If there are barriers—and there are—fight your way through them like a fucking Viking until she’s knocked up with your baby and so happy all she wants to do is let you love her.

9

Wakingup in Dakota’s room feels like I’ve time-traveled back to our tween sleepover days, minus the questionable fashion choices and boy band posters. I stretch out, half expecting those teenage relics to still be on the walls, but instead, I’m greeted by some genuinely cool art and the morning sun streaming cheerfully through the window.

I glance at the clock.

10:34.

Shit.

I must have beenreallytired. I never sleep in.

It probably didn’t help that Dee and I stayed up until almost two just talking.

Dakota’s side of the bed is empty, and I can hear the clangs and conversation of a house that’s already awake andhalfway through their busy day drifting under the chunky wooden door.

Sliding out of bed, I throw on some clothes from my suitcase—denim shorts and a tank top—twisting my long dark hair into a braid that hangs halfway down my back. My style has always been farm girl chic, but sometimes I have to wear more “corporate” style clothes when we’re trying to put record deals together or when I’m organizing publicity. Just another reason why being back here at Sugar Mountain makes my soul feel so light. I can be the real Roxie Tucker who lives in cowboy boots and barely wears a scrap of makeup, instead of always having to be the one with all her shit together.

Padding down the stairs, the familiar sounds of the Boone household surround me like a comforting hug. There’s the clink of dishes, the laughter of morning chatter, and the unmistakable scents of fresh-brewed coffee and home-cooked food.

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