Page 51 of Tessa and Nash

Home.

Safe.

Except it isn’t, because I’m about to introduce Tessa Long as my fiancée, and I can already hear Boone’s silence sharpening.

Tessa stands confidently by my truck. Coat buttoned neat, braid tight, chin lifted. The ring catches the porch light when she shifts her hand, a flash of gold with old weight behind it.

It looks oddly perfect.

My stomach churns with regret.

“You look like you’re about to confess to a crime,” Tessa says, eyes on the house, tone calm.

“I am,” I mutter. “Multiple crimes.”

She finally turns her head. The look she gives me is the same one she used to give in high school when I’d try to wing an answer I hadn’t studied for.

Clinical. Unimpressed. Weirdly steadying.

“Breathe,” she says.

“I am breathing.”

“You’re breathing like a man sprinting uphill.”

“I feel like I’m sprinting uphill,” I say. “Except the hill is my mother.”

A tiny twitch of her mouth.

“We go in,” she says. “We say hello. We act normal.”

“That’s a lot to ask.”

Her eyes flick up and down my face, taking inventory. “Then try ‘polite.’ It’s adjacent.”

I blow out a breath, shove my hands in my coat pockets, and start up the steps. Tessa moves with me without hurrying, without hesitating, matching my pace with ease.

The door swings open before I can even plan my next move.

Rose stands there with Wyatt on her hip, cheeks flushed from warm kitchen heat and toddler disarray. Her eyes go straight to me, then to Tessa, then to the ring, and her face lights up.

“Nash,” she breathes.

Faith appears behind her shoulder. “Oh wow.”

“Hi,” I say, because I’m an idiot and that’s all I’ve got.

Rusty waddles into view with a grunt, red heeler body, eyes already judging. He sniffs my boots, then immediately turns and sniffs Tessa’s.

Tessa doesn’t flinch. She crouches a little, hand low and open.

Rusty sniffs, huffs, then leans into her fingers. He’s decided she can stay.

I stare at my dog.

“Traitor,” I whisper.

Rusty grunts again.