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

MANDY

Two years later

I didn’t just end up with one nut in my sac.

No, I got two more. First, Nash, and then Rhett.

Both started as my next-door neighbors, and both ended up changing my life for the better.

Ball buddies. Brothers. Bitches.

Because, yeah, I finally took Riggs up on his offer. And I dragged Nash and Rhett along with me. The Bitches with Stitches is our trauma support group for veterans who knit to deal with their grief. It’s therapeutic, even if most of us suck at it.

Nash eventually moved out. He’s now at Serenity House, a halfway house for recovering addicts and veterans.

That’s where I met his roommate, Tex.

And if I thought the Bitches changed my life, it was nothing compared to the petite blond with the Southern accent and a penchant for cowboy boots.

Tex is like no one I’ve ever met. Feisty, beautiful, cock-hardeningly sexy, and he has the most generous heart of anyone I know.

But his pretty blue eyes are jaded with a pain he keeps tightly under wraps.

He doesn’t talk about it. Hell, I’ve tried to ask, but he always deflects with a joke or a wink, like it’s all just nothing to him.

But it’s the little moments that get me most. The ones where he lets his guard slip, even if only for a second. The flash of vulnerability in his gaze when he thinks no one’s looking. I’ve caught it more than once.

The push and pull, it’s all part of his charm. And for me, that combination is lethal. His laugh, the way he tilts his head when he’s listening to someone, or how he moves with that fluid, confident grace... It's intoxicating.

Sometimes, when the group’s together, he’s the one making everyone laugh, throwing out ridiculous jokes, or playing the part of the clown. But when it’s just the two of us, I see the cracks in his armor. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Everyone has. They just don’t know how to ask.

There’s something about him, something I can’t quite explain, that makes me want to know everything. To break through the layers of carefully constructed walls he’s built around himself. I don’t think Tex even realizes how easy it is to slip past his defenses when he’s around me.

The first time I met him, he paid me a compliment. Me , the ugliest guy in the room, coming from someone ethereal like him. It would almost be a joke, except it’s not funny. He was sincere. That was when I knew I was fucked.

No, not then. It was when he called me big guy .

Doesn’t he realize that makes my dick hard?

I should’ve laughed it off, pretended like I wasn’t hit by a freight train of emotions.

But I didn’t. The words landed in my chest like a shot of adrenaline to the heart, quick and direct, and left me breathless.

There was something about the way he said it—casual, unguarded, like he’d known me forever—that made me feel seen, and not just as some random dude who happened to be hanging around.

Big guy.

He made me feel important, as if I mattered to him—even if only for that fleeting moment. For a second, I was his someone special.

And that's when I realized I was already fucked.

Tex slid his soft little hand across my cheek, the burned one, and looked—actually looked —into my eyes, and I was lost.

Head over boots.

It was as if the world around us disappeared, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the intensity of his gaze.

In that moment, I wasn’t all the scars and all the broken pieces of me.

I forgot that I was supposed to be this tough, unshakable guy.

Because the way he looked at me, like I was more than just my injuries, made me feel like I was worth something again.

His touch was gentle, tentative, like he was afraid of breaking me. But it wasn’t fragile. And for that brief moment, I didn’t need any of the armor I’d built around myself. I just needed him.

That was almost a year ago, and Tex and I have two-stepped around each other ever since.

We’ve danced this slow, hesitant waltz—sometimes close, sometimes miles apart—but never quite crossing the line, never quite lowering the walls we both keep up.

There’s always that tension between us, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, as if we’re both waiting for the other to make the first move.

I’m not sure how much longer I can keep pretending that we’re just dancing around the truth when every step I take only brings me closer to it.

Tex knows I’m crazy for him. Hell, everyone knows.

I’m the damn joke of the group, the idiot with the unrequited crush, the one who keeps getting his hopes up only to watch them crash and burn.

Every time I think we’re making progress, every time Tex lets his guard down just a little, just enough to convince me he might feel something, I’m left with nothing but the sound of him slamming that brick wall right back up again.

The worst part? I let him do it. Over and over.

Tex’s brick wall isn’t just for show; it’s carefully crafted out of years of hurt, of mistakes, of things he’d rather not face.

And I’m sure as hell not the only one who’s tried to climb over it.

He flirts non-stop, dates like it’s a sport, and I’d have to be a fool to think he’s not sleeping with every guy he goes out with.

And yet, here I am, waiting. Hoping.

Wanting him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, and still... nothing. It’s like I’m standing on the edge of something that could be beautiful, something real, and he’s not just holding back—he’s running from it.

And I, like the schmuck I am, keep standing here, waiting for him to turn around and see me. But with every step backward he takes, I can feel my heart cracking just a little more.

I sit in the corner booth where the lights don’t quite reach, nursing a soda I don’t want, watching him work.

Tex glides between tables as if he’s weightless, all smiles and sway and shine.

His long shaven legs flash under those absurd little orange shorts.

He once joked they’re uniform regulation, but I’ve never seen anyone make them look like a weapon before.

His T-shirt clings to him, all snug cotton and curves, the Hooters logo stretched across his chest like a dare.

He flips his shoulder-length hair back with a practiced flick, grinning at a table of tourists who can’t stop staring.

Tex laughs loudly, throws out a wink, and leans in just enough to make them tip big. He’s good at this. Born for it, really. Flirting like it’s a reflex. He acts like he doesn’t even notice the way heads turn when he walks by.

But I notice.

I notice everything.

And I know the appeal isn’t under that shirt like the other girls here. No, Tex’s allure lives in those legs—smooth, tan, elegant—and the way he moves in those tiny shorts like he owns the floor. He shines in glitter and lip gloss and the kind of confidence that makes people forget to breathe.

Except with me.

With me, he’s different.

I get the real smile—the one that softens his whole face and lingers just a second too long.

I get a soft hand on my shoulder when he stops by, a casual touch that lights up my nerves like a live wire under my skin.

His fingers brush mine when he drops off the bill, and my breath catches every damn time.

But that’s all I get.

Not the full story. Not the secrets. With me, he’s real, but not too real. Just enough to keep me coming back but not enough to let me all the way in.

Nobody gets that real with Tex.

And I think—if I ever saw the whole truth in his eyes, it might wreck me.

He’s working the bar now, and I can’t stop watching.

Some guy in a fitted Polo has him laughing, leaning in too close, saying something low enough that I can’t hear but clear enough that I know the type.

Tex tosses his head back, hair flipping off his shoulders like he’s in a shampoo commercial, and I feel it in my chest like a punch.

The guy hands him a receipt, and Tex, smiling sweet as poison, slips the piece of paper into the side of his sock. Like its nothing.

Like it doesn’t mean anything.

My throat tightens. The stupid soda I’ve been nursing turns bitter on my tongue.

He does this sometimes. Flirts hard, takes numbers, plays the part like it’s a second skin. Maybe it is. Maybe the glitter and the gloss and the goddamn endless charm are just armor. Or maybe it’s real, and what he gives me is the lie.

Tex slides up to my table with a jutted hip and a grin.

“Brought you a little taste of sin,” he says, setting down a plate with a slice of chocolate cake, thick, dark, and perfect. My favorite. He knows that. Doesn’t ask if I want it, just knows I will.

“Appreciate it,” I say quietly, forcing a smile. “You spoil me.”

He shrugs, leaning on the edge of the booth. Tex doesn’t sit, he never does. He’s always moving, always just out of reach.

“You heading home after your shift?” I ask, voice casual but not really.

He catches the edge of it, that sharp bite I can’t quite conceal. His eyes skip to the guy at the bar—still watching—and something in Tex’s expression shifts.

“Nah,” he says, too breezy. “Grabbing drinks with some coworkers.”

I raise an eyebrow. “But you don’t drink.”

“I’ll just have a Coke,” he says with a shrug, flashing that easy grin. The one that means drop it.

I don’t.

“Okay,” I say. “Text me when you get home. Even if it’s late.”

His eyes soften a little. Just a flicker. “I will.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

And I know he’s lying.

I know exactly where he’s going, and with who, and why.

But I let it go. Because it’s not my place to stop him.

Because I’ll take the slivers he gives me, if it means he stays in my orbit a little longer.

Because I love him, and I don’t know how to stop.