Page 151 of Tessa and Nash

Congratulations. Smiles. Comments that range from warm to curious to sharp enough to draw blood.

“Look at you two!” Clara Jenkins gushes, grabbing my arm. “Just perfect.”

Perfect.

I smile politely. “Hi, Clara.”

Hank Lawson is near the back, beer in hand, eyes tracking us, seemingly watching a chessboard, not a dance. When Nash’s gaze flicks that way, his shoulders tense again.

I clock it.

Everything about him tonight is coiled. Held. He’s trying to keep everything contained and failing by degrees.

Maeve appears at my elbow, eyes bright with concern and barely restrained glee.

“You danced,” she whispers. “Voluntarily.”

“I was coerced,” I mutter.

She glances between me and Nash. “You both look… stressed.”

Nash snorts softly. “That’s our brand.”

Nash’s mouth twitches like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives Maeve a polite nod, murmurs something about grabbing a drink, and steps away from us with the kind of careful distance that feels intentional.

I watch him go, even though I don’t mean to.

I tell myself I’m just tracking movement in the room, clocking exits the way I always do, cataloguing where people stand and why. But my eyes follow him anyway, across the barn floor, past the couples reforming lines, past Boone and Dallas, past the place where the light is dimmer and the music louder.

Toward the bar.

My heart sinks in a way I absolutely do not appreciate.

It’s ridiculous. He’s allowed to get a drink. This is a barn dance, not a hostage situation. He’s probably just overwhelmed. Probably just needs a minute to breathe without fifty sets of eyes on him.

I tell myself all of that.

None of it stops the hollow feeling that opens up in my chest as his back turns fully to me.

Maeve notices immediately. Of course she does.

She follows my line of sight, then looks back at me with an expression that’s half concern, half oh no, you’ve got it bad.

“Okay,” she says lightly, looping her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get you some air. Or chili. Or both. Or neither. Just… away from the emotional blast radius.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Maeve hums. “You say that a lot right before you spiral.”

“I do not spiral.”

“You internalize aggressively,” she corrects. “It’s worse.”

I let her steer me a few steps toward the side of the barn, where the noise dulls just enough to think. I keep my posture easy, my expression neutral. If Nash is scanning the room, and I’m certain he is, I won’t give him anything to worry about.

That thought lands strangely.