Page 135 of Tessa and Nash

The waitress beams. “You two are just the cutest.”

She walks away.

I stare straight ahead.

“Did you just call me sweetheart?” I hiss.

“You panicked,” he whispers back. “I panicked louder.”

“I am never living this down.”

“Buckhorn will absolutely remember this forever,” he says cheerfully. “Possibly put it in the paper.”

I groan and drop my forehead toward the table.

Nash laughs under his breath, warm and quiet, and shifts closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe. You’re doing fine.”

I inhale. Exhale.

Unfortunately, his knee is still right there.

“So,” I say, desperately changing the subject, “do engaged couples normally interrogate each other about historical land disputes over burgers?”

“Only the romantic ones,” he says.

I glance at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

He considers that, then shrugs. “I’m enjoying you being flustered. It’s rare.”

I glare. “I am not flustered.”

“Your voice went up an octave when the waitress said ‘cutest,’” he points out.

“That was allergies.”

“In January.”

“Yes.”

He grins again, and I hate that it does things to me.

I look down at our still joined hands.

He hasn’t let go, and neither have I.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Nash

January 25th

If there’s one thing Buckhorn knows how to do, it’s change the temperature without touching the thermostat.

Town Hall feels different the second I walk in for our next biweekly meeting, as if the room pulled its shoulders in and decided to watch instead of welcome.

Same scuffed floors. Same long table with its uneven legs and coffee rings ghosted into the wood. Same folding chairs designed by someone who thought comfort was a moral weakness. But the people feel different. Conversations taper off as I pass.