Page 96 of Tessa and Nash

Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make it charming,” she spits. “Make it light, make it easy, make it like nothing matters as long as you smile through it.”

“That’s not fair,” I say, because it’s too close to true.

Tessa steps toward me. “You think you can build cabins and fix Buckhorn and play the golden boy and none of it has consequences?”

My pulse pounds. “And you think you can hide behind legacy and control everything and never risk getting hurt?”

Tessa flinches because I’ve struck a raw part of her.

Good.

Because I’m bleeding too.

We’re too close now, the air between us hot in the cold room.

Her eyes are dark, furious, shining with more under it. Something I don’t want to name because naming it makes it real.

“Don’t pretend you understand me.”

“I’m not pretending,” I say, and it comes out as a confession. “I’m trying.”

She laughs once, harsh. “Trying to what? Fix me?”

“No,” I snap. “Trying to figure out why you look like you’re carrying the weight of your whole damn family on your back.”

Her expression hardens.

Then she says, quieter, meaner, “Maybe because my family didn’t have the luxury of charming their way out of things.”

That makes my hands curl into fists.

“You think I’ve been charming my way out of things?” I say, shaking now. “You think I don’t work? You think I don’t care? You think this ranch is just some playground for me?”

Tessa stills. “You got to have it.”

“And you got to hate me for it,” I bite back.

She stiffens. “I didn’t choose this rivalry.”

“Neither did I,” I shout.

The sound bounces off the walls. It feels wrong in a house this quiet.

Tessa’s chest rises and falls fast. Her braid has come loose at the end, a few strands escaping, making her look less polished, more real.

And I’m standing here with a century-old journal in my hands, realizing my family’s legacy has a crack running through it, and the only person who understands the crack is the woman I’m pretending to love.

Only I don’t know what I’m pretending anymore.

That thought is terrifying.

It makes me angry.

So I do what I always do when I’m scared.