Page 104 of Tessa and Nash

That’s how I know she’s spiraling.

Tessa doesn’t spiral the way I do. Loudly, chaotically, with dramatic internal monologues and hand gestures. She spirals quietly, a machine tightening bolts, until something snaps.

I follow her downstairs, tugging my boots on as I go, shirt half buttoned, because apparently I enjoy suffering.

Tessa heads straight for the front door.

She yanks it open.

A blast of cold air slaps into the house so hard it feels personal. Snow swirls onto the porch, sharp and stinging. The drift at the foot of the steps is almost knee high.

Tessa stands there, staring, trying to intimidate nature into backing down.

I step up beside her. “Okay. So. Option A: we become snowmen.”

She doesn’t laugh.

Her jaw is clenched tight enough to crack a molar.

“This is ridiculous,” she says, shaking with fury. “No one said there was a storm.”

“No one said there was a storm because it wasn’t on the forecast,” I shoot back, then immediately regret it because that sounds defensive instead of the fact that we’re both trapped in a frozen nightmare house that contains our families’ worst secret.

Tessa slams the door shut and storms toward the kitchen.

I follow again because leaving her alone right now is a bad idea.

The kitchen is cold. The old radiator in the corner ticks and pops, trying its best but resenting it. The pipes, as Tess flicks on the faucet, groan before the tap finally coughs out cold water.

Tessa grabs her phone off the counter where we left everything last night.

She taps the screen.

Her eyes narrow.

Then she taps again.

“No.”

I pull mine out. Check it.

Nothing.

No signal.

Not even the sad little one bar lie.

“We’re in a dead zone,” I say.

Tessa’s gaze snaps to mine. “Of course we are.”

“That’s not—” I start.

“It’s always something with you,” she barks. “Always another mess. Another plan. Another risk.”

My throat tightens because there it is.

Tessa Long thinks I’m the kind of man who creates a mess and expects other people to clean it up.