Page 21 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)
TEX
The apartment smells like roasted garlic and something buttery and warm when I step back from the oven.
I toss the potholder onto the counter and turn around, and there he is.
Mandy’s propped on the couch like a wounded hulking hot motherfucker, one leg tucked under a blanket, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching me.
Not casually. Not half-aware. Watching me like I might disappear if he blinks too long.
It does funny things to my insides, being seen like that. Like I’m not just some chaotic mess of a man who shows up with cactus balloons and makes innuendos at every opportunity. He makes me feel like I’m something real. Like maybe he needs me.
I clear my throat, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. “Mac and cheese or ramen?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
He actually laughs, which makes something flutter deep in my chest. “That's not cooking.”
I feign offense. “Excuse you, it is when you use two kinds of cheese.”
Mandy shakes his head. “You’ve been in here all day, playing nursemaid and pretending to be Gordon Ramsay. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’m from Texas,” I say with a grin, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Of course I can cook.”
Mandy raises a brow. “I didn’t know being from Texas qualified you for the kitchen.”
I shrug, leaning on the counter. “Between my mama and living with Nacho, I’ve picked up a few things. Besides, I figured it’s time I stopped feeding you things that come with a side of grease and heartburn. No more tacos, wings, or chocolate cake. You need healthy food to heal.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes still on me. “You’re really making a chicken and rice bake?”
I gesture dramatically toward the oven. “With actual vegetables. And seasoning that didn’t come in a packet.”
His eyes focus on me like the sight of a sniper, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Something catches in my throat. Fucking feelings!
I nod, eyes suddenly stinging. “Okay,” I say, voice soft, “maybe one piece of chocolate cake. To reward the compliment. But only one.”
He smiles at me then, really smiles, and I swear to God, if that smile came in a dessert, I’d eat the whole damn thing.
Mandy looking relaxed in pajama pants and a threadbare Army T shirt, hair mussed and eyes soft, is fucking delicious.
He shifts on the couch like he’s gearing up to say something important. I expect another dry joke, maybe a quip about cake or casseroles, but instead, he pats the couch cushion next to him.
“Come sit,” he says, voice low. “It smells like heaven in here, and I don’t want to enjoy it alone.”
I hesitate, half because the rice bake needs another ten minutes, half because that invitation feels loaded. But I move anyway, peeling off the oven mitt and crossing the room to lower myself beside him.
The second I do, he tugs the blanket over my legs, too. It’s fleece, hideous, covered in cartoon dogs wearing bandanas. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder now, and his warmth seeps into me like sunlight through a windowpane.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks again. “I used to think healing was about getting stronger,” he says. “Pushing through. Getting over things. But maybe it’s just letting yourself be taken care of for once. Without feeling weak.”
I glance at him. His scarred profile is turned toward the TV, though it’s not even on.
“I don’t feel weak when I’m with you,” he finishes, barely above a whisper. “Scared, yeah. Hell yeah. But maybe not so weak. I’m learning there’s a difference.”
The silence stretches. I reach out and grab the little throw pillow behind us, the one embroidered with a cowboy boot and the words Don’t squat with your spurs on , and whack him softly with it. I bought it for him shortly after we met, when he was healing from a procedure for his shoulder.
He blinks at me, stunned. “Did you just?—”
“You went soft on me,” I say, struggling not to smile. “I had to bring balance to the universe.”
Mandy snorts, catches the pillow, and retaliates. Somehow, through the tickling and laughing, I end up on my back, my lower half pinned beneath his huge body.
The oven timer dings sharply, piercing our bubble.
“I better get that before it burns,” I say, breathless.
But neither of us moves. My eyes are locked with his and the air between burns hotter than the inside of the oven. My heart’s beating so loud there’s no way he doesn’t hear it.
Is he gonna kiss me? Should I even try? His mouth is all bandaged and sore, so maybe I should?—”
“Thanks for feeding me real food,” he blurts, interrupting my thoughts. “And for being here. Even when I make it hard.”
“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” I say, before I can stop myself.
His breath catches.
It’s the second or third time I’ve mentioned my feelings for him, but I’ve yet to hear anything said in return. Mandy always conveniently sidesteps it, so it doesn’t become a thing . But… what if I want it to be a thing?
Mandy just stares at me through dark unreadable eyes, and I can feel every beat of his pulse against my skin.
“I know,” he finally says, voice quiet. “I know you do.”
It’s not nothing. But it’s not enough. Not for me.
Swallowing hard, I raise up, letting him know I’ve had enough. Not out of anger, just… self-preservation. “Cool,” I say with a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half. “Glad that’s clear.”
I push up off the couch, head to the oven, pull out the bubbling chicken and rice, and pretend my heart isn’t thundering like I just jumped out of a plane without a parachute.
Behind me, Mandy shifts, the couch creaking. “Tex…”
I don’t turn around. I can’t.
Because suddenly I realize, I’m tired of being the one who always says it first. The one who reaches, who risks.
I get that he’s scared. So am I! But can’t he give me something? A crumb? A morsel? Just enough to keep going, to keep putting myself out there to be rejected?
“I’m gonna get plates,” I say, bright and chipper, like I didn’t just bleed a little in front of him. “And maybe—just maybe—cut us that piece of chocolate cake. You’ve earned it.”
Hell, I’ve fucking earned it. I might just disappear into the bathroom with the entire cake and stuff it into the hole in my heart by way of mouth.
Speaking of bathrooms… “It’s shower day, Big Guy. After we eat, I’ll help you get cleaned up.”
He groans as if I just told him we’re doing a marathon of The Notebook, followed by a root canal.
“Do I have to get my face wet?”
“Well, you definitely need to wash your hair. That’s not gel holding your hair in place, it’s grease.
” His entire face scrunches, and I’m reminded of his anxiety.
It’s not just limited to hospitals and procedures, apparently.
It’s the aftercare, too, and having to mess with his bandages. “I’ll help you. It won’t be so bad.”
“I’m a grown man. I can shower without help,” he barks a bit too sharply.
I set my fork down carefully. “Hey. I know that bark. That’s fear, not pride.”
He looks away, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on a loose thread in the blanket draped over his legs.
“Mandy,” I say softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s okay to let someone help. It doesn’t make you weak. You’re fresh out of surgery, held together by stitches and stubbornness.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I promise I won’t mess with your bandages unless you ask. I won’t rush you. And I definitely won’t judge you.” I squeeze his hand. “But I’m not gonna pretend like you don’t need support, just because you’re too proud to ask for it.” Or too afraid.
His shoulders sink a little, the defiance bleeding out of him, and what’s left is just tired. Vulnerable. Human.
“I hate seeing it,” he mutters. “My face. The way it pulls when I move. The way the scars twist when the water hits them. I worry I’m gonna pull a stitch loose and start bleeding, maybe have to go back in to repair the damage. Or that the graft won’t take if I fuck with it.”
“None of that is going to happen,” I reassure him. “I have magic fingers.” Wiggling them in his face draws a soft laugh.
I take his hand again, warm and callused and trembling faintly. “You don’t have to do any of this alone. Not the healing. Not the hurting. Not the hard parts. I’m not going anywhere.”
He closes his eyes, dark lashes resting against pale skin, and nods once. A small movement, but everything in me softens with it.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Help me.”
This is the moment we begin again, not from the place where we last crashed, but somewhere new. Somewhere gentler. Where he doesn’t have to be fearless to be loved.
Where I can love him exactly as he is.