Page 39 of Tessa and Nash

Two: this is not my bed.

I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Light slants across unfamiliar walls. Soft, pale, too clean. Not the rough wood paneling I grew up with. The sheets smell of bergamot and pine in a way that is very much not McCoy Ranch laundry detergent.

Oh no.

I lift my head an inch. The room spins violently. I drop back onto the pillow with a groan, pressing my palm to my face as memory slams into me all at once.

Whiskey… snow, the kiss… the sneaking.

Laughter I tried not to make loud.

Tessa Long.

In her house.

In her bed.

I bolt upright.

Or try to.

Pain detonates behind my eyes, and I hiss, grabbing the edge of the mattress to keep from toppling sideways. The movement is enough to disturb the other side of the bed.

Tessa stirs.

My stomach drops clean through the floor.

She rolls onto her back, hair loose and wild against the pillow, blinking, waking from a dream. Then her gaze locks on me.

All softness vanishes.

“What,” she snaps, “are you still doing in my bed?”

I swallow. “Good morning?”

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Do not good morning me.”

I scrub a hand through my hair, immediately regretting the pressure. “Okay. Yeah. That’s fair.”

She sits up, dragging the sheet with her, posture already locked down, spine straight, armor snapping into place as it always does when she’s angry.

“You need to leave.”

“That was my plan,” I say quickly. “Immediately. As soon as my brain stops trying to escape my skull.”

“You stayed,” she fires back.

“So did you,” I shoot back, then instantly regret it.

Her eyes flash. “This is my house.”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor bites into my bare feet. My jeans are folded neatly over a chair. Folded.

Of course they are.

Tessa Long does not allow turmoil, even after questionable decisions.

I reach for my shirt, and she makes a sharp sound.