Page 62 of Tessa and Nash

Nash picks me up at six on the dot.

Which, frankly, is already suspicious.

I’m just fastening my coat when headlights sweep across the front windows. I glance outside and spot his truck pulled neatly to the curb, engine idling, lights dimmed. He’s trying not to announce himself, an effort already rendered pointless by the fact that Mrs. Henley across the street is absolutely watching from behind her curtains.

Of course she is.

I step outside and close the door carefully behind me.

Nash gets out of the truck immediately, like he’s been rehearsing good behavior. He’s dressed better than usual. Dark jacket, clean boots, hair still doing that infuriating thing where it looks effortless even when it clearly isn’t.

He smiles when he sees me.

That familiar, easy smile that usually makes me want to argue on principle alone.

“You look nice,” he says.

“You look… punctual,” I reply. “I assume this is part of the performance.”

He laughs. “I’m trying to survive.”

I walk past him toward the passenger door. “Then you should know I’ve already had a full day of people congratulating me on marrying you.”

He winces. “That bad?”

“Clara Jenkins offered to start baking wedding pies.”

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “That’s dire.”

He opens the truck door for me, exaggerated and polite. I pause just long enough to make him wonder if I’m going to comment on it.

I don’t.

Buckhorn is already buzzing when we pull onto Main Street. Trucks angled into parking spots. Couples strolling. Someone laughing too loudly outside the diner. Christmas lights still strung across the road, twinkling like the town is pretending it isn’t January.

Nash parks, kills the engine, then looks at me.

“So,” he says. “Where are we going, fiancée?”

I arch a brow. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” he says. “I assumed you had a route.”

I open my door. “We walk.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I say. “If we sit somewhere too long, people will listen.”

He snorts. “You’ve thought about this way too much.”

I glance at him. “You’ve thought about this not nearly enough.”

He falls into step beside me easily, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. The town notices immediately. I can feel it, the pause, the recalibration, the quiet thrill of new information spreading as a current.

“Okay,” he murmurs, low. “Rule check. Do we hold hands?”

“Only if it feels natural,” I say.