Page 165 of Tessa and Nash

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, grabbing a mug and pouring coffee I probably shouldn’t drink but absolutely need.

Dallas doesn’t smile. He studies me instead, head tilted slightly. “Did you sleep?”

“Some,” I say.

It’s a clean lie. Efficient. I’ve had practice.

Boone snorts. “You disappear halfway through the dance, come home late, and now you look like you lost a fight with your own conscience. That wasn’t ‘some.’”

I pause with the mug halfway to my mouth.

My head is still buzzing, my thoughts bruised. Everything feels tender, exposed.

“You get hit by a truck?” Boone adds. “Or did you finally learn you can’t outdrink Hank Lawson?”

Dallas’s fingers still.

“You vanished,” he says quietly. “Tessa too. Maeve asked where you both went.”

I set the mug down because my hand isn’t as still as I want it to be. My mouth opens on instinct.

And for one terrifying heartbeat, I almost tell them about Old Mill Road, the tree, the way saying I love you felt like stepping off a cliff and somehow hitting solid ground.

About how she looked at me afterward. She wanted me and was terrified of that wanting in equal measure.

Almost tell them that this isn’t pretend anymore, that it hasn’t been for a while, that I don’t know how to walk this back.

The words crowd my throat, sharp and reckless and aching to be said.

Then shame slams into me, hot and unforgiving.

Because how do you explain that your fake engagement turned real in the most inconvenient way possible?

That you let it spiral because pretending was easier than admitting you were falling?

That you might’ve just lit a match under a land dispute that’s been smoldering for a century?

My jaw tightens.

“I’m fine,” I say instead, the words stiff and unconvincing even to my own ears.

Boone raises a brow slowly. “Hmmm.”

Dallas watches me over the rim of his glasses, far too perceptive. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m just tired,” I snap, then soften it quickly. “Long night. Too much noise.”

Boone leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t do ‘too much noise.’ You do avoidance.”

I huff a short laugh. “Wow. Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

“I’m serious,” Boone says. “You’re acting like someone dropped something heavy on you and you’re pretending it didn’t crack.”

Dallas closes his laptop with a quiet click. “If this is about the engagement⁠—”

“It’s not,” I cut in too fast.

Both of them clock it.