Page 141 of Tessa and Nash

“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know. I just…” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “It felt like I was standing there saying words and none of them mattered.”

I start walking again, and he matches me immediately, relief flickering across his face like he was worried I might bolt.

“That’s Buckhorn,” I say quietly. “They decide first. Then they listen.”

He snorts. “Well, they decided I’m either an idiot or a criminal.”

“Why not both?” I mutter.

That gets a weak laugh out of him.

We pass the gazebo, still draped in sad, leftover Christmas lights. Dottie Carter and her sister are on a bench pretending not to stare. I straighten my posture automatically.

Public.

This is public.

Which means everything matters.

Nash notices too, his hand drifting closer to mine. I don’t look at him when I lace my fingers through his.

The reaction is immediate; he stiffens for half a second before relaxing, thumb brushing the side of my hand in a way that’s probably supposed to look natural.

It does. Annoyingly.

“Smile,” he murmurs. “They’re eating this alive.”

“I don’t smile on command,” I whisper back.

“Your scowl reads as ‘intimidating fiancée,’” he says. “Which might actually help.”

I tilt my head slightly, letting my gaze sweep Main Street. “Good.”

We reach Buttercup Bakery, and the bell over the door jingles, alerting the entire town to our presence.

Clara looks up from behind the counter, flour on her cheek, eyes lighting up like Christmas morning.

“Good afternoon, Clara.”

She gestures toward the case. “Snack?”

I glance at Nash. He looks like he might collapse if someone hands him anything but sugar.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re having a snack.”

Clara beams as she slides two pastries onto a plate shaped suspiciously like a heart.

“On the house,” she adds.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” she replies.

Nash reaches for his wallet. Clara swats his hand away.

“Just consider us for the wedding, that’s all I ask.”

We end up at the small table by the window, the one strategically placed for maximum visibility. I can feel eyes through the glass before I even sit, while Nash stares down at his pastry.