Page 28 of Tessa and Nash

“Dirty move.”

We stand there, the argument bleeding into banter as it always did, the heat settling into warmth instead of volatile disdain.

“Fine,” I say finally. “One drink.”

His eyes flick toward the bar, then back to me. “Just one?”

I smile thinly. “Don’t push it, fiancé.”

He laughs under his breath, stepping aside to let me pass.

And just like that, the fight dissolves temporarily.

But the spark?

That’s very much still there.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nash

January 3rd

If you asked me later how long we talked, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.

Time in Buckhorn is usually measured in practical things. How many bales you hauled before lunch, how long the calves took to settle, how deep the snow drifted against the fence line. But tonight, time is measured in sips and glances and the slow, inevitable way Tessa Long takes over a room without ever raising her voice.

One drink turns into two.

Two turns into a low burn in my chest that makes the bar feel warmer, the questions from earlier feel farther away, and the lie I told in Town Hall feels less like something waiting to crush me in my sleep.

The noise around us blurs. Penny’s laughter. Tate’s drawl from the corner. Martha Lou’s voice cutting through the jukebox. The Rusty Spur always smells of beer and old wood and stories that should’ve stayed private, but tonight it’s just background.

Even when Penny glances over, eyebrows raised, she doesn’t say anything. Tate’s eyes flick from us to his drink, then back again, like he’s measuring something he’s not sure he wants to know.

Tessa is the only thing in focus.

She sits angled toward me as if she’s been forced into proximity a thousand times before and decided she might as well win at it. Coat draped over the chair, braid still tight, posture stiff even when she relaxes. Control is a religion, and she’s its most loyal disciple.

And somehow, she’s still here.

Still talking.

Still sparring.

Still making me forget, for a few dangerous stretches of seconds at a time, that my mother asked me who my fiancée was and I couldn’t even swallow a lie fast enough to give her a name.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I tell her, tipping my glass toward her in a mock warning.

She lifts her drink, expression flat. “I’m never pleased.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

I lean in a little, the alcohol turning courage more reckless. “I’ve seen you pleased.”

Her eyebrow rises. “When?”