Page 14 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

TEX

The scent of dryer sheets—fresh linen—hits me the second I step into Mandy’s apartment. He’s been doing laundry, and the place smells… homey. I balance the to-go bags in one hand and nudge the door shut with my hip.

“I come bearing tacos,” I announce, holding the bag aloft like a gift from the gods. “Mango habanero. Fresh off the truck, and still warm. Just like me.” The flirty edge to my tone is meant to make him laugh.

Mandy takes the bags from me and sets them on the counter. “You’re a mess.”

“And yet here you are, benefiting from my mess.” I start unpacking the food as Mandy grabs drinks and plates. “I also brought extra napkins because I care about your shirt. And your dignity.”

As I’m setting out the containers, a cream-colored envelope catches my eye. It’s sitting just off to the side with the rest of his unopened mail. The words

"North Carolina State Veterans Home - Black Mountain"

are printed in calligraphy, all formal and serious-looking.

“Oooh,” I say, reaching for it. “What’s this?”

Mandy moves fast, but not fast enough. I snatch it just before he can grab it, stepping out of his reach.

“Tex, come on?—”

“It’s an invitation to an Annual Charity Dinner,” I read aloud, teasing. “Black tie? Fancy. You’ll need a date.”

“I’m not going.”

I grin. “Well, then I’ll just have to go twice as hard. And wear something scandalous to make up for you skipping out.”

He gives me that deadpan stare that usually means I’ve pushed it too far. “Tex?—”

“I’ve got a dress burning a hole in my closet,” I add with a wink.

Mandy looks horrified. He couldn’t care less about gender norms and fashion. What he cares about is drawing unwanted attention to himself.

I burst out laughing. “Relax, it’s pants. Very respectable. Probably. I don’t know. Depends on how many sequins survived the wash.”

“I’m not good at events,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “Too many people. Too many eyes.”

I reach over and bump his arm with mine. “Why’d they invite you?”

He hesitates, then says quietly, “I volunteer there sometimes. Spent a year at that place after the blast. Consecutive surgeries, therapy… They helped. A lot.”

Something in me softens, and I set the envelope down gently.

“Then you’re definitely going. You matter to them, Mandy. And I’ll be right there with you. Holding your hand.”

He scoffs, but it’s weak. I can see the fight slipping out of him.

“And if anyone stares too long,” I add, grabbing a taco and unwrapping it dramatically, “I’ll throw spicy mango in their face. This stuff is like napalm.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. Mission accomplished.

He finally sits down, slow and a little reluctant, but he takes the taco I hand him like it's a peace offering. Which, honestly, it kind of is. I know how to fight dirty, but I also know how to make it better. Usually with food.

We eat in mostly comfortable silence for a few minutes. He doesn’t look at the invitation again, but I can tell it’s on his mind. His eyes keep drifting toward it like it’s going to explode or sprout legs and run away. I’m sure he wishes it would.

“So,” I say, chewing thoughtfully, “is it weird that I kinda want to see you in a tux?”

He gives me a side-eye. “Why?”

I shrug. “Dunno. I just think you’d look sharp. Tall. Dangerous. Sexy in a grumpy James Bond sort of way.”

He snorts into his taco, nearly choking. “Grumpy Bond?”

“You know, like, ‘I’ll save the world but don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.’ That’s your whole vibe.”

Mandy shakes his head, amused despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you let me in your house. Fed me tacos. You’re practically enabling me.”

He softens again. Not all at once. It’s more like a slow release, like the way a sore muscle eases into warmth. His shoulders drop a little, and his eyes don’t dart around the room as much.

“I really don’t do well at those things,” he says, quieter now. “Not just the people. It’s the lighting. The noise. The smells. And there’s always someone who stares too long or talks too loud or tries to ask questions they shouldn’t.”

I nod. “Then we make a plan. We have a signal. You get overwhelmed, you squeeze my hand. We step outside. We breathe. We leave if you need to.”

He looks at me. Really looks at me. Like he’s trying to figure out where I came from and why the hell I haven’t run yet.

“You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack in a hospital soap opera.”

Another laugh. This one is low, full, and real. My favorite kind.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But if I have a panic attack and bolt, I’m blaming you.”

“Blame away, Bond.”

“And you better not wear sequins.”

I put a hand on my chest, mock offended. “Sir, I’ll have you know my pants will be tastefully sparkly at most.”

He groans, but he’s still smiling.

I don’t need to hold his hand yet. But I will. When he’s ready. Just like he’d do for me.

I finish my taco in two more bites, wipe my fingers on a napkin, and stand up with purpose.

Mandy eyes me suspiciously. “What now?”

“Now,” I say, brushing past him like I own the place, “we raid the closet.”

“Tex—”

But I’m already there, pulling open the bifold door with a dramatic flair. The contents reveal themselves like the world’s least thrilling magic trick: flannels. So many flannels. Plaid. Dark solids. Long sleeves. Heavy-duty. Basically, a lumberjack starter pack.

I pause, turning slowly toward him. “This is it?”

He crosses his arms. “What’s wrong with it?”

“I was expecting at least one black button-down. Maybe a blazer. Something that doesn’t look like it belongs at a cabin in Montana.”

He shrugs. “They’re comfortable.”

“They’re depressing,” I say, tossing a faded forest green one onto the bed. “You can’t wear depression plaid to a charity gala.”

“It’s not a gala.”

“Still.”

I keep flipping through hangers. More flannel. A plain gray hoodie. A t-shirt from some old concert. One very sad pair of slacks that looks like it hasn’t been touched since the Bush administration. The first one. I turn again, giving him my best scandalized pageant stare.

“This won’t do. We have to shop.”

Mandy groans, as if I suggested we swim through lava. “Tex.”

“No. Nope. I’m drawing a hard line. You’re not walking into that event looking like you rolled in from a cabin fire.”

His lips twitch. “You’re a menace.”

I beam. “A fashionable menace.”

“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

“Because you will . But you’ll look hot doing it.”

He shakes his head, but there’s that small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again. Victory. It smells like burnt mango habanero and success.

Maybe it’s because I said he’s hot. Maybe I don’t tell him often enough.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing his keys from the hook. “We’re going to make a tux happen. And maybe a tie that doesn’t double as a noose.”

He sighs dramatically, like a man being dragged to his own execution. But he follows me to the door anyway.

Because Mandy always follows. And deep down, I think he kind of likes it when I lead.

We’re only five minutes into the store and Mandy already looks like he wants to fake an injury and crawl back to the car.

“You didn’t say it was a fancy store,” he mutters, eyeing a price tag like it personally insulted him.

“It’s not fancy,” I say, flipping through a rack of blazers. “It’s just not flannel. You’ll live.”

Mandy grunts and shuffles after me like a reluctant toddler. I pull a navy velvet blazer from the rack and hold it up against him.

He scowls. “I’m not wearing anything velvet. I’m not a lounge singer.”

I ignore him, because I’ve just spotted something even better.

“Okay, but what about this?” I hold up a burgundy suit jacket with sleek lapels and a slim cut.

His eyebrows hit his hairline. “Is that wine-colored ?”

“It's not wine, it's... cranberry sophistication ,” I say, swishing the jacket dramatically.

He narrows his eyes. “You just made that up.”

“Sure did.”

He sighs and reaches for a black suit instead, something simple and safe, but I bat his hand away. “Nope. You’re trying this one first.”

“Tex,” he starts in a whisper, leaning in close. “The color brings out the redness in my scars and makes them look more… severe. Don’t you think?”

My smile softens. I wasn’t expecting that.

He’s standing so close I can see the way his lashes flutter. The way he doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

I reach up, gently tugging the sleeve of the cranberry blazer off the hanger. “No,” I say, softer now. “I think it brings out the seriousness in your soul. And the depth in your eyes. And the fact that you’ve been through hell and came out of it standing.”

He huffs a breath that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“I’m always thick. Thick-headed. Thick-thighed. Thick...” I waggle my brows, leaving the last part unsaid. “But I’m not wrong.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust it.

“You wish you had thick thighs,” he teases. “I’ll try it on,” he finally says, grabbing the blazer. “But if I look like an overcooked pork chop, I’m blaming you.”

I salute him. “Fair.”

But when that fitting room door opens again and he steps out—still unsure, still tugging at the sleeves—I don’t see his scars first. I see a man I’ve already written an entire love story about in my head. I see fire and loyalty and something richer than I ever thought I’d deserve.

And if I ever get lucky enough to get with him, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.