Page 157 of Tessa and Nash

“You’re spiraling.”

I snort. “We just did this an hour ago.”

Tessa takes a step closer, eyes sharp. “Something happened.”

I swallow.

Tessa exhales slowly, trying to keep her own emotions contained. “We need to talk about this.”

My chest tightens. “Not here.”

Her brows lift slightly. “Where, then? In the middle of the barn where Clara Jenkins can hear us breathe?”

I huff. “No.”

Tessa studies me for a beat, then turns slightly, gesturing toward the dark road beyond the rodeo grounds.

“Walk,” she says.

And somehow, I follow her as if I’ve been ordered.

We move away from the barn, boots crunching on snow, music fading behind us.

Old Mill Road stretches out ahead, narrow and dark, lined with bare trees and fences half buried in drifts. It’s quieter out here, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat.

Mine is loud.

Tessa keeps her hands in her coat pockets, posture stiff as ever, but I can see tension in the set of her shoulders.

“You’re drinking because you’re upset,” she says after a moment.

I laugh softly. “No, I’m drinking because I’m a cliché.”

Tessa shoots me a look. “Nash.”

I exhale. “Fine. Yes.”

She nods once. “About the ranch.”

“About everything,” I admit.

Tessa’s gaze shifts ahead, focused on the road, probably afraid to look at me too long.

“Tell me,” she says.

And that’s the thing.

She says it as if she can handle it.

I wonder if she can take whatever I’m carrying and not flinch.

Which is exactly why I want to tell her.

And exactly why I shouldn’t.

“The council’s stalling,” I say. “They want surveys. And a county review. They’re calling it ‘precaution.’”

Tessa’s jaw tightens. “That’s not precaution. That’s fear.”