Page 197 of Tessa and Nash

I am absolutely not fine.

Bidding starts immediately.

“Fifty dollars!”

“Seventy-five!”

“One hundred!”

Hands go up across the room while the auctioneer points dramatically between bidders. “Now that’s what I like to see!”

Nash tips his hat toward someone near the front row.

“Careful,” he calls. “You’re going to start a bidding war.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

A woman near the stage raises her hand again, grinning. “Oh, I fully intend to.”

Nash leans toward the microphone with exaggerated seriousness. “Well now,” he says, resting his forearms on the podium, “I should warn everyone that the trail ride includes steep hills, questionable campfire cooking, and a guide who talks too much.”

“Sounds perfect!” someone calls from the back.

He laughs. “See? That’s exactly the kind of poor decision-making I like to encourage.”

The auctioneer claps him on the shoulder. “You hear that, folks? Charm and humility. This one’s practically a bargain.”

“Careful,” Nash replies easily, flashing a crooked smile toward the crowd. “If you oversell me, people are going to want refunds.”

He looks effortless. The exact same charming, impossible cowboy Buckhorn has always adored.

And slowly, piece by piece, it starts to feel obvious what this means.

Of course he’s fine.

Of course he moved on.

Why wouldn’t he?

He’s exactly where he belongs. In front of a crowd. Being liked. Being easy.

The man confessed his love while standing half-drunk under a tree during a snowstorm. It was impulsive, reckless, and wildly inconvenient.

Now the moment has passed, and he’s back to being Nash McCoy. The version of him that belongs to everyone. Not the one I thought, stupidly, might belong to me.

Maeve shifts closer to me. “You’re gripping the table.”

I look down.

My fingers are wrapped so tightly around the edge of the drinks table that my knuckles have turned white.

I loosen my grip slowly.

No one looks at him like he’s done something unforgivable. No one questions why he’s standing up there like nothing happened. No one asks if any of it mattered.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

But the word feels brittle.