Page 70 of Tessa and Nash

And the quieter, scarier thought beneath it…

Ask questions before you fall for the woman standing beside you like she belongs there.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tessa

January 10th

I did not expect to enjoy this.

That’s the first mistake of the day.

Enjoyment is a liability. And I don’t usually let liabilities breathe.

Founders’ Day is supposed to be exhausting. Crowds, noise, stories I already know filtered through nostalgia and selective memory. I came prepared to endure it. Smile when required. Hold Nash’s hand when necessary. Maintain the illusion.

Instead, somewhere between Dottie Mae Carter crackling through the microphone and the way the winter sun catches on the gazebo lights, I realize something inconvenient.

I’m having fun.

The realization settles uneasily in my chest as I stand near the edge of the town square, wrapped in my coat, surrounded by Buckhorn’s collective memory. The town feels fuller today. Louder, reminding itself it still exists.

And Nash McCoy is… different here.

Not the man who panics at town council meetings or stumbles through lies with charm as a shield. Not the boy I competed with in school, always smiling like nothing mattered enough to wound him.

Here, he kneels to talk to children eagerly. He listens to elders without interrupting, nodding as if every story is worth holding onto. He laughs easily, but there’s a steadiness under it I didn’t expect. He’s finally standing on ground that fits him.

It complicates things.

I’ve spent years refining my narrative about Nash McCoy. Reckless. A man who skates through life because the town lets him.

Watching him now, letting Ellie chatter at him while he crouches to her level, watching him accept Virgil Tucker’s gruff comments with patience instead of defensiveness, cracks that narrative right down the middle.

I don’t like it.

Maeve does.

She appears at my elbow with a cup of cocoa and the kind of smile that tells me she’s enjoying my discomfort far too much.

“So,” she says lightly. “When did irritation turn into… whatever this is?”

I don’t look at her. “It hasn’t.”

She hums. “Interesting. Because you’re smiling.”

“I smile in public,” I reply. “It’s called social competence.”

“You’re smiling at him,” she counters.

I glance toward Nash, who is currently listening to Dottie Mae with exaggerated solemnity. He catches me looking and lifts his brows slightly, a silent you okay?

I look away so fast I nearly strain myself.

Maeve watches me for another beat, then her tone shifts. Less teasing. More careful.

“Also,” she says quietly, “your uncle was at the library this morning.”