Page 71 of Tessa and Nash

My shoulders tighten. “Doing what?”

“Requesting old council minutes. Pre-fifties. Land committee stuff.” She studies my face. “He didn’t look surprised by anything he found.”

I don’t like the sound of that.

“So,” Maeve continues lightly, like she didn’t just detonate something, “whatever this is with Nash… you might want to stay very clear on which parts are strategy.”

“And which parts aren’t,” I murmur.

She smiles. “Exactly.”

Before I can respond, the music starts.

Someone lifts a fiddle like an afterthought, another joins in, and suddenly the space in front of the gazebo clears.

People pair off easily. Couples who’ve done this for decades. Familiar hands finding familiar places. Comfort in motion.

Nash is suddenly in front of me.

He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t take my hand as if it’s a foregone conclusion. He waits, weight balanced, shoulders loose, eyes on mine like he’s braced for refusal.

“Dance?” he asks quietly.

It’s not the word that steals my breath.

It’s the restraint.

I hesitate.

Not because of the town. The town is noise. The town is manageable.

Because of us.

Because we already crossed a line in the dark and warmth and privacy, and now we’re standing in daylight pretending that line doesn’t exist. Because I don’t know how to touch him now without remembering how easily it happened before.

Still, I nod.

He exhales, soft, almost imperceptible, and steps closer.

It’s a bit awkward at first. We’re both recalibrating where we’re allowed to place ourselves now. His hand hovers for half a second before settling at my waist, fingers warm even through wool, checking whether I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

My hand finds his shoulder, light at first, then steadier, and the contact is immediate and electric in a way that makes my breath catch.

We don’t dance so much as sway, bodies finding a rhythm without permission. Boots scuff snow. Laughter drifts. The fiddle carries the tune like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

I am suddenly aware of everything.

The heat of him.

The way his thumb flexes once at my side and then stills, reining himself in.

The way my pulse feels too loud in my ears.

And how easy it is.

That’s the most dangerous part.