Page 134 of Tessa and Nash

He snorts softly and takes another bite of his burger, chewing, a man unbothered by the fact that half the town is mentally planning our wedding favors.

Across the diner, Mrs. Halloway gasps and stage-whispers something to her sister while gesturing with her fork.

Nash follows my line of sight.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “We’re really being assessed.”

“For what?” I ask, trying my hardest to lean into the here and now. “Vibes? Body language? Whether we’re holding hands the correct amount for an engaged couple who are definitely in love and definitely not spiraling?”

“Relax,” he says. “You’re doing great.”

I squint at him, wondering how he got to be the calm one for a change. “I am sitting stiffly, overthinking my posture, and trying not to remember things that are wildly inappropriate for a booth with vinyl seats.”

“That’s very on brand for you,” he says kindly.

I kick him under the table.

He grins and leans back, stretching his arm along the top of the booth, settling into a role he was born for.

Which, unfortunately, he was.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s give them a show.”

My stomach flips. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

“Nothing scandalous,” he promises. “Just… normal engaged couple behavior.”

He reaches out and, without ceremony, takes my hand.

“Normal,” he says casually, thumb brushing the side of my hand once. “See? Very wholesome.”

Hank Lawson clears his throat loudly from the counter.

Nash doesn’t even look at him. He just squeezes my hand once, gentle but unmistakable, anchoring me in place.

My pulse is absolutely unhelpful.

“Smile,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth. “Clara’s watching.”

I plaster something onto my face that might pass as joy or might read as a hostage situation.

Nash leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine.

“Too much teeth,” he says quietly.

“Don’t micromanage my fake happiness.”

“Sorry.”

The waitress swings by again, eyes bright with curiosity. “Everything tasting alright?”

“Perfect,” Nash says easily. He doesn’t look at me when he adds, “Isn’t it, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

I choke on air.

“Y… yes,” I manage. “Great. Love it. Big fan of… food.”