Page 91 of Tessa and Nash

“Oh, definitely.”

Tessa’s mouth tightens. “Wonderful.”

I can’t help it. I laugh.

She glares at me.

“What,” I say. “It’s cute.”

“It is not cute,” she says immediately.

“It is,” I insist. “You’re like a⁠—”

“Don’t,” she warns.

“A tiny historian dragon,” I finish anyway, because I’m suicidal.

She stares at me for a long beat. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’ve been told,” I say, smiling.

Her gaze remains on my mouth for half a second too long.

My smile falters.

So does my breathing.

Tessa looks away as if she didn’t do that. She didn’t just make my stomach drop straight through the floor.

We go back to the office.

The sun shifts outside, light changing through the window. Dust motes float through the room.

Tessa stands at the shelves again, scanning, then moves to the desk beneath the window.

It’s old, sturdy, the kind of desk built to survive wars. There’s a blotter on top, a pen holder, and a stack of yellowed paper.

No obvious secrets.

Tessa opens the top drawers. Empty. A few paper clips. A dried-out ink bottle.

She checks the left. Nothing.

I check the right.

Nothing.

She exhales through her nose, frustration sharpening her whole posture. “There should be something.”

“You think there should be something?”

She pauses, mouth firming. “I know my uncle wouldn’t care about this place if it was just furniture.”

Fair.

I step closer, look around. “Maybe it’s not in here.”

“It is,” she says, certainty flashing, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her absolutely sure all day. “It has to be.”