Page 24 of Tessa and Nash

Nash is at the bar, coat still on, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s staying or running. Penny Tucker is talking at him with the enthusiasm of someone who smells gossip. Becca Haskins hovers close, eavesdropping as much as she can. Tommy Greene and Laura Tucker are pressed together at a high top, whispering and smiling as new couples do when they think they’re subtle.

Engaged.

The word hangs over the room like condensation.

Maeve folds her arms. “Please tell me you didn’t drag me in here because your uncle sent you on a reconnaissance mission.”

“I dragged you in here because if I walked in alone, it would look suspicious,” I say. “With you, I look festive.”

“You don’t do festive.”

“I’m expanding my range.”

She snorts. “You saw him come in, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And this has nothing to do with Thomas being obsessed with McCoy Ranch.”

I pause. “That’s optimistic of you.”

She sighs. “I don’t like him using you like this.”

“I don’t like unanswered questions,” I reply, shrugging out of my coat. “We all have our flaws.”

We don’t go straight to Nash. That would be obvious. Instead, we let Buckhorn happen.

The bar is busy in that particular small-town way. Familiar faces layered three conversations deep, laughter overlapping, everyone pretending this isn’t exactly where they expected to be tonight. Sheriff Tate Carson lifts his glass from a corner booth, nodding once in acknowledgment. Martha Lou from the diner laughs loudly near the jukebox, calling someone hon. Virgil Tucker is stationed at the far end of the bar, dispensing unsolicited advice to anyone within earshot.

Penny Tucker spots us immediately. “Tessa! Maeve! You hear the news?”

Maeve smiles sweetly. “We just got here. Do tell.”

Penny practically vibrates. “Nash McCoy. Engaged.”

I lift my glass. “A modern miracle.”

Becca laughs a little too brightly. “Good for him, right?”

Her eyes flick toward Nash. I notice.

Tommy grins. “Guess he finally settled.”

Laura elbows him. “Says the man who moved in after three dates.”

“That’s efficiency,” Tommy protests.

The door swings open again, and Jet Alvarez barrels in, cheeks flushed, coat half off already.

“Wow,” she says, scanning the bar. “I leave town for one afternoon, and someone gets engaged?”

Maeve lights up. “Jet. Save me.”

Jet grins and makes a beeline for us, boots thudding against the floor. “From what? Small-town delusion or romantic misinformation?”

“Yes,” Maeve says immediately.

Jet plants her hands on the edge of the table and leans in. “Okay, I need names, timelines, and at least one unreliable witness. Because I served that man coffee for four years. He orders like commitment is a personal attack.”