Page 5 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

Brewer’s office is quiet except for the tick of the wall clock and the low hum of the white noise machine. I’m slouched on the couch, arms crossed, eyes on the floor. I haven’t said much today, and he knows better than to press.

When I finally speak, it comes out so low I barely recognize my own voice.

“I survived the war, and so far, I’ve survived my recovery,” I say. “But loving him might kill me.”

Brewer doesn’t react. Just leans forward slowly, bracing his elbows on his knees like he’s settling in.

“Part of healing,” he says in a calm voice, “is allowing yourself to want more.”

I look up and meet his eyes for the first time in this session.

“What if wanting more is the thing that wrecks me?” I ask.

Brewer shrugs slightly. “Then it’s honest. And honesty is a hell of a lot easier to recover from than regret.”

He leans back into the worn chair, crossing one foot over his knee, his gaze steady but not invasive.

“It’s not about control, Mandy. It’s about trust. That’s what loving someone is about. Love is messy, and sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it feels great. That’s where the trust comes in.”

I breathe out slowly, jaw clenched. My hands are knotted in my lap like I’m bracing for impact.

“I don’t know how to trust something I can’t predict,” I admit. “I’ve always known how to take pain. I can prep for that. But with him…”

I shake my head, not even finishing the sentence. The words are heavy, stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

Brewer nods. “You’re not afraid he’ll hurt you. You’re afraid he won’t let you love him. And that you’ll stay anyway.”

I go still because that hits too close. Actually, I hadn’t thought of that until he voiced it, but now… fuck. New fear unlocked.

Am I going to spend the rest of my life chasing after a man who doesn’t love me back?

I let that sit. Let it dig in. Because he’s right. And it scares the hell out of me.

Brewer doesn’t speak for a long moment. Just watches me like he’s letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

Then he says gently, “Close your eyes.”

I hesitate. He waits. The room falls away, but his voice stays close and warm, a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“Think about Tex. Not the part that scares you. Not the chaos. Just… him. What it feels like when he’s near.”

I see him immediately. Leaning over my table, sliding a slice of cake toward me like it’s a love letter. That crooked grin. Those ridiculously sexy shorts. The way his hand brushes mine and leaves a fire in its wake.

At least that’s how I always saw it.

But what if the cake is a consolation prize for his love?

A soft boundary. A signal that this is all I’m ever going to get.

My chest tightens. I nod slightly, even though it feels like something inside me just folded in half.

“What comes up?” Brewer asks quietly.

“I thought it meant something,” I realize aloud. “The little things. The way he looks at me. The cake. The texts. But maybe it’s just… his way of keeping me close enough to matter, but not close enough to break through.”

Brewer nods like he’s been there. Maybe he has.

“He’s got walls,” I say, lower now. “Hell, so do I, but mine have doors. His feel like a damn vault.”

Brewer leans forward again, voice soft. “You’re afraid he’s using crumbs to keep you starving.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

“You’re allowed to want the whole thing, Mandy,” he says. “Not just the edges. Not just the sweet moments between the heartache.”

I nod, but my throat’s tight. My hands twist in my lap. Because wanting more feels like a betrayal. But settling feels like a slow death.

“I want to keep him safe,” I say finally. “I want to make it easier for him to breathe. But I don’t know how to do that without losing myself.”

Brewer exhales. Not a sigh, but something closer to relief.

“That’s love, Mandy. Wanting to give without disappearing. That’s the work.” His voice lowers. “Now think about what you’d say to him if you weren’t afraid.”

It lands like a blow. My hands curl tight because there’s still so much I haven’t said.

That I see the hurt behind his eyes, even when he’s smiling.

That I know he lies, and I never call him on it because I don’t want to drive him away.

That I love him.

And I’m not sure he’ll ever let me.

“I’d tell him,” I whisper, “that he doesn’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”

Brewer nods. “Good. Say it again. Out loud.”

“He doesn’t have to be perfect for me to stay.”

My voice cracks, but I get it out.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel weak for wanting more.

Brewer wraps up the session with his usual calm and a few gentle reminders about grounding techniques and breath work. I nod along, barely hearing him.

By the time I step out into the hallway, the air feels too sharp, like everything inside me has been scraped raw.

I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive around for a while, windows down, elbow out the side like I’m still young and reckless and not thinking about a boy in orange shorts who might never love me back.

Eventually, I pull off at one of those quiet overlooks where people come to think, or cry, or drink, or park with someone they shouldn’t. But I just sit.

The engine hums beneath me like it’s trying to be patient.

I struggle to climb out of the car, unfolding myself like a reluctant jack-in-the-box.

A guy my size crammed into something this small is beyond ridiculous.

My knees are practically in my throat. Every turn is a yoga pose.

Coop wasn’t built for a six-four ex-demolitions tech with a rebuilt shoulder and a bad back.

But I keep him anyway.

Mini Cooper. Starlight Blue Metallic. Same color as Tex’s eyes when the sun hits just right. He saw this car once and lit up like a kid spotting a puppy in a store window. Fell in love at first sight.

Much like I did with him.

So now I drive it. Traded in a perfectly good truck. And every time I fold myself into the goddamn thing like a Jack-In-The-Box, I think of him. His hair whipping around in the wind. His feet up on the dash. His laugh when I grind the gears just to hear him mock me.

It’s a logistical nightmare. But love isn’t supposed to make sense.

I settle back in the seat, the city lights flickering below me, and pull out my phone. Not to text. Just… to write. Something I won’t send.

I don’t want pieces of you.

I don’t want a slice of your pity cake.

I don’t want the version of you that only exists under fluorescent lights and flirty smiles.

I want the one who laughs when no one’s around.

The one who touches my arm like I matter.

The one who doesn’t think he deserves love but swears that I do.

I want him.

And I don’t know how much longer I can survive wanting someone who’s terrified of being wanted.

I stare at the words until they blur. Then I lock the screen and toss the phone on the passenger seat.

Tex’s seat.

Well, not tonight. But maybe soon.