Page 25 of Tessa and Nash

I lift my glass. “And yet.”

She grabs a stool and kicks it closer with her boot. “I swear, Buckhorn men only do two speeds. Never settling down and married with three kids before they’re ready.”

I laugh so much I almost forget why I’m here.

Almost.

Across the bar, Nash shifts. Runs a hand through his hair. Takes a long drink like it’s medicinal.

Nash laughs when Penny says something, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Cornered.

Good.

Maeve catches my eye and lifts one brow. Now.

I ease away, slow and unremarkable, letting the noise cover my movement. I greet Clara Jenkins, who has somehow snuck a plate of her cookies into the bar, nod at Sheriff Tate again, and exchange pleasantries I won’t remember later.

I make it three steps before fate, or Buckhorn, intervenes.

Nash turns at the same time I do.

We collide.

Not dramatically. No spilled drinks or gasps from the crowd. Just a solid, unmistakable bump of bodies that shouldn’t be this aware of each other. His hand comes up automatically, catching my elbow. My fingers curl into the front of his coat before I can stop myself.

Static snaps between us. It’s immediate. Unwelcome. My nervous system has been hijacked without my consent.

My breath shortens. My balance shifts just slightly, as if my body has recalculated the distance between us and decided it matters.

I hate that it does.

“Watch it,” I say at the exact same time he mutters, “Sorry…”

We freeze.

His hand is still on my arm. Warm. Calloused. Too familiar for someone I supposedly dislike on principle. My pulse kicks up, traitorous and fast.

He drops his hand like it’s burned him. I straighten, spine locking into place.

“Wow,” I say coolly as I smooth down my dress. “Still clumsy, I see.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You walked straight into me,” I point out. “Very on brand.”

His mouth quirks. “That is rich coming from the woman who tripped over a chair leg at senior prom.”

“I did not trip,” I snap. “The chair attacked first.”

He snorts. “You blamed the furniture then, too.”

“I was wearing heels,” I say. “You were wearing boots and a superiority complex.”

He leans back slightly, eyes flicking down and up again, unapologetic. “Funny. I remember you shoulder-checking me into a locker sophomore year.”

“You were standing in my way.”