Page 158 of Tessa and Nash

I snort, bitter. “Welcome to Buckhorn.”

“And Hank Lawson?”

My hand tightens around my empty glass. “He’s enjoying it.”

Tessa’s breath fogs in the cold. “It’s my uncle pushing.”

I glance at her. “You think I don’t know that?”

She meets my gaze, eyes sharp. “Then why are you acting like you’re alone in it?”

Because I am.

Because Boone doesn’t know. Dallas doesn’t know. Mom knows fragments but not the full mess. And Tessa… Tessa is caught between her family and mine in a way no one else is.

“I’m trying not to make it your problem,” I mutter.

Tessa scoffs. “Too late.”

We walk in silence for a few beats, and then the bourbon—it’s always the bourbon—loosens the thing I’ve been holding down for weeks.

The thing that’s been pressing at my ribs every time she looks at me, every time she touches me, every time she walks away.

“Tessa.”

She glances at me. “What?”

I stop walking.

She takes one more step, then stops too, turning to face me fully.

The moonlight catches the edge of her braid, the sharp line of her cheekbone. Her eyes are dark, hard to understand.

My chest aches, and my mouth is dry.

I should not do this.

I should go back to the barn. Drink water. Make jokes. Dance one more stupid dance. Pretend the act still works.

But I’m standing on Old Mill Road with Tessa Long, and the truth is sitting in my throat.

“I’ve fallen for you,” I say, and the words come out rough, immediate. They’ve been waiting for an exit.

Tessa freezes.

Her eyes widen, just slightly.

“What?”

I laugh once, breathless. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

“Nash,” she whispers, warning again, but it’s shakier now.

“I’m serious,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m so damn serious it scares me.”

Tessa’s throat works as she swallows. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” I correct automatically. “There’s a difference.”