Page 11 of Tessa and Nash

She laughs, bright and unrestrained, then tilts her head. “So. What’s the real reason you’re here?”

I sigh and rest my forehead briefly against the edge of the desk. “I needed a break. And gossip with my bestie. Preferably in that order.”

Maeve beams. “Say no more.”

She gestures toward the back reading table. “Coffee’s terrible, opinions are strong, and I have thoughts.”

I follow her, already feeling lighter, the tension from the house and the office loosening its grip. Whatever my uncle is afraid of, whatever history is hiding, this—Maeve, warmth, laughter—is the part of Buckhorn that makes it all bearable.

She drops into the chair across from me and lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“So,” she says. “Let me tell you what I heard about who Laura Tucker supposedly went on a date with last week…”

CHAPTER THREE

Nash

January 3rd

Town Hall smells of old paper, burnt coffee, and the kind of polish that tries too hard to feel official.

I roll my shoulders once before stepping inside the council chamber, as if that might shake loose the nerves crawling up my spine. The room is already half full. Council members seated behind the long table at the front, a handful of locals scattered in folding chairs, boredom and curiosity warring on their faces.

This is it.

I grip the rolled-up renderings under my arm and head toward the podium, boots echoing louder than they should on the tile floor. My palms itch. My fingers twitch. If I don’t let them move, I might actually vibrate apart.

At least no one else is here.

I told them not to come.

Boone frowned, Dallas watched me too carefully, deciding whether to push, but I’d shut it down before either of them could argue.

This isn’t a family pitch. It’s mine.

I spot her before I reach the front.

Tessa Long sits at the narrow desk off to the side, already in work mode. Hair braided tight, posture straight, pen moving with efficient purpose as she organizes papers. She doesn’t look up when I enter, not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Good. Fine. Whatever.

Of course it’s her.

Tessa Long has been haunting my peripheral vision since we were sixteen. Always two rows over in class, always raising her hand just a second before I did. Valedictorian speeches turned into unspoken competitions. Group projects turned into battlegrounds. She never cheated, never cut corners. She just outworked everyone. Including me.

Especially me.

We were rivals before I even knew why. Before I understood that our last names carried more weight than we did. Before Buckhorn decided we were supposed to be on opposite sides of everything.

She used to look at me the same way she’s looking at her paperwork now. Sharp, unimpressed, already braced for disappointment. I’d crack jokes just to see if I could make her crack too. Sometimes I did. Sometimes she’d roll her eyes so hard it felt like a personal victory anyway.

I can’t count how many times I’d walked into a classroom confident, only to realize she’d already turned something in. Already finished. Already planned three steps ahead.

It pissed me off.

It pushed me harder.

And standing here now, watching her pen move with the same precise control it always had, my chest tightens. The version of me who used to measure himself against her never really went away. He just learned how to smile better.