Tessa and Nash's Fake Fiancée

1. Nash

CHAPTER ONE

Nash

Three…

Two…

One…

“Happy New Year!”

The cheer rolls through the town square, loud and bright and a little sloppy, echoing off brick storefronts and bundled bodies.

Someone pops a bottle of cheap champagne.

Someone else whoops as if they’ve just won the lottery.

Fireworks crack overhead, bursts of color bleeding into the low winter clouds.

I smile. I clap. I shout it back.

And then, not even twenty minutes later, I’m heading out of town with my brothers and their families, the noise fading behind us.

Buckhorn Ranch greets us the way it always does. Quiet, solid, unchanged by the calendar flipping over. Snow crunches under our boots. The house beams warm against the dark, a promise more than a celebration.

Once we get home, Rose corrals Ellie and Wyatt inside towards their bedroom. Faith scoops Lila up without a word, murmuring soft words into her hair. The night winds down without ceremony.

I grab three beers from the fridge and head back out onto the porch with Boone and Dallas.

Rusty beats us there, tail wagging once before he circles and drops at our feet with a satisfied grunt. He’s checked the perimeter and declared the year officially safe.

Boone leans against the railing, shoulders broad, staring out at the pasture. Dallas sits on the step beside me, elbows on his knees, breath fogging in the cold.

I hand them each a beer.

“To Clay,” Boone says quietly.

Dallas lifts his bottle. “To the circuit.”

I clink mine against theirs. “And to him finally figuring out what he’s chasing.”

The glass taps are soft, swallowed by the night.

Clay should be here. He should be pacing the porch, restless and sharp-tongued, pretending he doesn’t care how far he’s pushed himself. Instead, he’s somewhere on the road, chasing dirt and adrenaline and something that finally feels his.

The pasture stretches out in front of us, fence lines cutting dark shapes through the snow. Buckhorn Ranch looks the same as it always has. Dependable. Unmoving.

Dependable doesn’t mean untouchable, though.

Dallas mentioned it last week, as an afterthought.

Feed costs creeping up again. Repairs we’ve been putting off another season because the numbers never quite line up the way we want them to.

Boone hasn’t said it out loud, but I see it in the way he studies the pasture lately.

He’s running calculations he doesn’t want to share.

Buckhorn’s survived worse than this.

But surviving isn’t the same as being safe.

Maybe that’s the problem.

“I’ve been thinking about this year,” I say, the words spilling out before I can second-guess them. “About where we’re headed.”

Dallas turns his head slightly. Boone doesn’t, but I know he’s listening.

“I don’t think cattle alone is gonna be enough forever,” I continue. My hands start moving, sketching ideas into the air. I can already see them there. “Costs keep rising. Weather’s unpredictable. And Buckhorn… town’s barely holding steady as it is.”

Dallas nods slowly. “Tourism’s picked up,” he says. “Since Faith started running the town’s social media.”

“That’s what got me thinking,” I say quickly. “People want experiences now. They want to stay somewhere that feels real. Ranch stays. Trail rides. A place where kids learn where food comes from and adults remember what quiet sounds like.”

Boone finally turns, studying me carefully. “You’re talking about a guest ranch.”

“Part of the land,” I say, fast. “Not replacing anything. Just adding. Diversifying. Making sure Buckhorn’s still here for the next generation.”

Boone takes a slow pull from his beer. The porch light catches the rim of the bottle, the glint cold as his stare.

“A dude ranch,” he says curiously.

“Guest ranch,” I correct automatically, because if I don’t, if I let it sound like a joke, I’ll talk myself right out of it. “Dude ranch makes it sound like we’re gonna start selling souvenir spurs and teaching city folks how to say ‘howdy’ without choking on it.”

Dallas huffs a laugh. “That’s… not what they do?”

I point at him with my bottle. “Trail rides. Cattle drives for the tourists who want to pretend they’re in an old Western. Cabin stays. Campfire dinners. Horseback lessons. Maybe a little fly fishing if we open up access down near the creek. And we keep it small.”

Boone’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. Dallas’s gaze shifts from me to the pasture.

“That stretch will complicate things,” Boone says carefully.

“How?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Council will bring it up.”

Dallas adds, quieter, “They always do.”

I let it slide. I shouldn’t, but I do. Every good idea has a snag. No point letting one stretch of water scare me off before I even start.

Boone’s eyebrow ticks up. “And sustainable.”

“It matters,” I say, too quick again, hands already going.

I can’t help it. When I get an idea, it crawls under my skin until I either build it or it eats me alive.

“Solar on the guest cabins. Composting. Low-impact trails. Water-wise landscaping. We’re already doing half of it without calling it that. ”

Dallas’s gaze shifts out into the pasture, measuring my words against the land itself. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for months,” I admit. “Since we talked about that old building at the edge of the property.”

Boone’s mouth quirks. “The one you swore you were fixing up as a ‘guest house’ for when people visit?”

“That was the plan,” I insist. “At first. It’s got good bones.

It’s already set back far enough that it wouldn’t interfere with the cattle.

And then I started seeing more. Like, if one guest house works, why not two cabins?

Why not a whole little section we can set aside and make money on without selling off land or borrowing against our souls? ”

Rusty shifts at our feet, lets out a grunt, then settles again as if he’s heard this speech before and approves.

Dallas tips his head. “And how would we manage it? We’re already stretched.”

“I’ve got a plan,” I say, and the word plan is a promise I can’t afford to break.

“We start with a soft launch. Limited bookings. Weekends only at first. Faith can help me build an online presence. Social media. Photos. Videos. She’s been practically begging for content that isn’t just pictures of Lila feeding Rusty biscuits. ”

Dallas’s lips twitch. “She did post that one where he stole it straight out of her hand.”

“Exactly. People love that stuff.”

Boone’s quiet for a beat, and I can feel him thinking. Boone always thinks. It’s why people trust him. It’s why I end up feeling a little useless around him.

“You gonna go to the council with this?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My pulse ticks up. My body knows what’s coming before I do. “I have to. I need to deal with permits, zoning, and whatever other hoops they want us to jump through.”

Boone’s stare stays firm. “And you’re ready for them to say no?”

The question lands sharper than it should. He’s not just asking about the council.

I swallow. The cold bites at the back of my throat. “I’m ready for them to listen.”

Dallas shifts on the step, boots scraping wood.

“They’ll say you’re dreaming,” he says. “They’ll say you get excited, then move on.”

I hate how true that is. Or how true it used to be.

I can feel that old version of me rising up. Grinning, shrugging, pretending it doesn’t matter if nobody believes me, because at least Ι believe me. But I’m tired of being the guy people call fun when what they mean is unreliable.

“This isn’t that,” I say, quieter. “This isn’t some half-baked idea I’m gonna abandon when it gets hard.”

Boone’s gaze flicks to my face, looking for the crack in the statement. The lie. The weakness.

I hold it anyway.

Dallas blows out a breath.

“I like it,” he says finally. “Honestly. It’s smart. Town needs something that isn’t just rodeo weekends and folks driving through on the highway.”

Hope flares hot in my chest, stupid and bright. “You do?”

He shrugs. “It’s work. But it’s smart work.”

Boone’s silence stretches. Then he nods once. “Could be good for the ranch.”

My chest loosens.

Then he adds, “If you can pull it off.”

There it is.

Not disbelief exactly. Boone doesn’t do outright doubt. Boone does caution. Boone does weight and balance and consequences. Which means the doubt is in there anyway, tucked under the careful words.

“If,” I repeat, forcing a grin because it’s easier than admitting it stings. “You got a bet going on how fast I crash and burn, Boone?”

He takes another drink. “No.”

Dallas snorts. “He does. He just won’t say it.”

Boone’s mouth tilts. “I’ve got a bet going on how fast you overpromise.”

I laugh, but it’s a little tight. “Fair.”

The pasture stays quiet. The ranch stays strong. It always has. It’s why we’ve survived.

But survival isn’t the same thing as living.

I finish my beer, set the bottle down, and stand. My legs feel restless, the idea already demanding motion. Boone and Dallas stay where they are. They belong to the porch, to the land, to this stillness. I’m the one who’s always trying to outrun it.

“I’m gonna go write it all down.”

Dallas lifts his brows. “Now?”

“Now,” I confirm, already backing toward the door. “Before I talk myself out of it.”

Boone’s voice follows me. “Don’t stay up all night.”

I pause, one hand on the doorframe, and glance back. “No promises.”

His eyes narrow, but there’s a tickle of amusement there.

Inside, the house is quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t judge you for pacing the floor or thinking too loud.

I shut my door behind me and lean my forehead against it, breathing out hard.

This is it.

I cross the room in three long strides and yank my notebook off the desk, nearly knocking over the lamp in the process. It’s already open to a dog-eared page, old scribbles and half ideas crowding the margins. Arrows leading nowhere, boxes never checked.

Not this time.

I flip to a clean page, and the sight of it sends a jolt of electricity straight through my chest.

Fresh page. Fresh year.

The pen feels solid in my hand. I don’t hesitate.

A rough rectangle becomes the old building at the edge of the property. I label it EDGE CABIN (GOOD BONES), then underline it twice and add a star in the corner, my shorthand for don’t screw this up.

I sketch the porch I already framed last fall, and add windows where I know the morning light cuts in best.

“This works,” I mutter. “It actually works.”

I draw another box beside it. Smaller.

Then another.

Between them, I scribble SPACE = QUIET = $$$ with a crooked arrow looping back to QUIET, because that’s the most important part.

My notes start drifting sideways, filling the margins.

NOT TOURISTS → GUESTS.

Circle around guests, double underline,

REAL WORK, NOT A SHOW.

I draw a stick figure cowboy with a ridiculous hat, cross it out hard, then replace it with a boot print.

EXPERIENCE > COSTUME.

My foot taps against the floor, energy buzzing through me. I flip the page and start connecting ideas with arrows that only I’ll ever understand.

A sun doodle in the top corner.

= SOLAR (ASK TOMMY?)

A squiggly line near the bottom of the page.

~~~~ = CREEK.

NO BUILD. EVER.

I box that last one in so thick the paper nearly tears.

The words are messy. Slanted. Some are upside down because I don’t bother turning the notebook when my brain jumps tracks.

TRAIL RIDES → arrow → STORIES AT NIGHT.

CAMPFIRE FOOD (REAL FOOD).

(ASK ROSE ABOUT MENUS)

Another arrow shoots off toward the side.

FAITH

→ PHOTOS

→ VIDEOS

→ “DAY IN THE LIFE”

I draw a tiny phone icon and add:

SHE’LL LOVE THIS.

I laugh quietly to myself, shaking my head.

The next page is numbers. Not clean columns, more of a controlled string of thoughts.

FIX MYSELF = $

HIRE HELP = $$

DON’T CUT CORNERS = NON NEGOTIABLE

I circle non negotiable three times.

For once, the math doesn’t feel like a threat. It’s a challenge I actually want to take on.

I scribble down another thought before I lose it.

THIS IS MINE.

No arrow. No explanation. Just the words, sitting there, solid.

My chest tightens, but it isn’t fear.

I flip to a new page and write it big.

TOWN COUNCIL MEETING

I draw a box around it, then a second box, then add little exclamation marks in the corners as warning signs.

Underneath, I jot:

CLEAR

HONEST

PREPARED

Then, almost without thinking, I add in smaller letters off to the side:

DON’T PANIC

DON’T PERFORM

JUST TELL THE TRUTH

I lean back in the chair, notebook balanced on my knees, staring at the mess of ink and arrows and symbols.

Anyone else would call it madness.

I see a future. I don’t feel I’m waiting for someone else to hand me permission. I’ve got the bull by the horns.

And this time, I’m not letting go.