6. Tessa
CHAPTER SIX
Tessa
“Why are we here?” she asks, stumbling half a step as warmth and noise swallow us whole. “You said you were tired.”
“I was,” I say. “Then I saw something I couldn’t unsee.”
She follows my gaze and groans. “Absolutely not.”
Nash is at the bar, coat still on, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s staying or running.
Penny Tucker is talking at him with the enthusiasm of someone who smells gossip.
Becca Haskins hovers close, eavesdropping as much as she can.
Tommy Greene and Laura Tucker are pressed together at a high top, whispering and smiling as new couples do when they think they’re subtle.
Engaged.
The word hangs over the room like condensation.
Maeve folds her arms. “Please tell me you didn’t drag me in here because your uncle sent you on a reconnaissance mission.”
“I dragged you in here because if I walked in alone, it would look suspicious,” I say. “With you, I look festive.”
“You don’t do festive.”
“I’m expanding my range.”
She snorts. “You saw him come in, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And this has nothing to do with Thomas being obsessed with McCoy Ranch.”
I pause. “That’s optimistic of you.”
She sighs. “I don’t like him using you like this.”
“I don’t like unanswered questions,” I reply, shrugging out of my coat. “We all have our flaws.”
We don’t go straight to Nash. That would be obvious. Instead, we let Buckhorn happen.
The bar is busy in that particular small-town way.
Familiar faces layered three conversations deep, laughter overlapping, everyone pretending this isn’t exactly where they expected to be tonight.
Sheriff Tate Carson lifts his glass from a corner booth, nodding once in acknowledgment.
Martha Lou from the diner laughs loudly near the jukebox, calling someone hon.
Virgil Tucker is stationed at the far end of the bar, dispensing unsolicited advice to anyone within earshot.
Penny Tucker spots us immediately. “Tessa! Maeve! You hear the news?”
Maeve smiles sweetly. “We just got here. Do tell.”
Penny practically vibrates. “Nash McCoy. Engaged.”
I lift my glass. “A modern miracle.”
Becca laughs a little too brightly. “Good for him, right?”
Her eyes flick toward Nash. I notice.
Tommy grins. “Guess he finally settled.”
Laura elbows him. “Says the man who moved in after three dates.”
“That’s efficiency,” Tommy protests.
The door swings open again, and Jet Alvarez barrels in, cheeks flushed, coat half off already.
“Wow,” she says, scanning the bar. “I leave town for one afternoon, and someone gets engaged?”
Maeve lights up. “Jet. Save me.”
Jet grins and makes a beeline for us, boots thudding against the floor. “From what? Small-town delusion or romantic misinformation?”
“Yes,” Maeve says immediately.
Jet plants her hands on the edge of the table and leans in. “Okay, I need names, timelines, and at least one unreliable witness. Because I served that man coffee for four years. He orders like commitment is a personal attack.”
I lift my glass. “And yet.”
She grabs a stool and kicks it closer with her boot. “I swear, Buckhorn men only do two speeds. Never settling down and married with three kids before they’re ready.”
I laugh so much I almost forget why I’m here.
Almost.
Across the bar, Nash shifts. Runs a hand through his hair. Takes a long drink like it’s medicinal.
Nash laughs when Penny says something, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Cornered.
Good.
Maeve catches my eye and lifts one brow. Now.
I ease away, slow and unremarkable, letting the noise cover my movement. I greet Clara Jenkins, who has somehow snuck a plate of her cookies into the bar, nod at Sheriff Tate again, and exchange pleasantries I won’t remember later.
I make it three steps before fate, or Buckhorn, intervenes.
Nash turns at the same time I do.
We collide.
Not dramatically. No spilled drinks or gasps from the crowd. Just a solid, unmistakable bump of bodies that shouldn’t be this aware of each other. His hand comes up automatically, catching my elbow. My fingers curl into the front of his coat before I can stop myself.
Static snaps between us. It’s immediate. Unwelcome. My nervous system has been hijacked without my consent.
My breath shortens. My balance shifts just slightly, as if my body has recalculated the distance between us and decided it matters.
I hate that it does.
“Watch it,” I say at the exact same time he mutters, “Sorry…”
We freeze.
His hand is still on my arm. Warm. Calloused. Too familiar for someone I supposedly dislike on principle. My pulse kicks up, traitorous and fast.
He drops his hand like it’s burned him. I straighten, spine locking into place.
“Wow,” I say coolly as I smooth down my dress. “Still clumsy, I see.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You walked straight into me,” I point out. “Very on brand.”
His mouth quirks. “That is rich coming from the woman who tripped over a chair leg at senior prom.”
“I did not trip,” I snap. “The chair attacked first.”
He snorts. “You blamed the furniture then, too.”
“I was wearing heels,” I say. “You were wearing boots and a superiority complex.”
He leans back slightly, eyes flicking down and up again, unapologetic. “Funny. I remember you shoulder-checking me into a locker sophomore year.”
“You were standing in my way.”
“It was my locker.”
“You were still in my way.”
A few heads nearby turn. Penny Tucker’s eyebrows lift with interest. I ignore her.
Someone near the dartboard nudges a friend. I hear my name hissed. Buckhorn loves a spectacle. Especially when it involves old rivals and new scandals.
“Careful, McCoy,” I add sweetly. “Wouldn’t want your fiancée seeing you run into your old academic rival.”
The word lands.
His jaw tightens. “You got something you wanna say, Long?”
“Oh, I’ve got a list,” I reply pleasantly. “But let’s start small. Engaged?”
His laugh is sharp and humorless. It’s enough to irritate me. Muscle memory I never authorized.
Every time he shifts closer, my focus stutters. Words land a half-second late. I have to work harder than I should to stay sharp.
This is ridiculous.
“That’s too fast, even for Buckhorn,” he hisses.
“You announced it in a room full of people who treat gossip like a competitive sport,” I shoot back. “What did you expect? A confidentiality agreement?”
“I didn’t expect you to be keeping score.”
That does it.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “You made a spectacle at a public meeting. I happen to work there.”
“So this is professional concern now?” His eyes flick over me, challenging. “Because last I checked, you were glaring at me like I’d personally sabotaged your valedictorian speech.”
“You tried to,” I say. “You asked a question just to throw me off.”
“I asked because you forgot to define your terms.”
“I did not forget.”
“You absolutely did.”
I point a finger at his chest. “You smirked.”
He grins, unapologetic. “You hated that smirk.”
“I hated you,” I correct.
“Liar.”
The word lands soft, almost amused, and it sends an unwelcome flicker straight through my chest.
“Still making grand declarations when you’re cornered?” I say, grasping for irritation. “Some habits die hard.”
His brows knit. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please,” I scoff. “I sat three rows behind you for four years. You always did your best work under pressure.”
“And you always assumed you were smarter than everyone else in the room.”
There it is.
The old heat flares, fast and familiar. Lockers slamming. Debate podiums. Test scores posted on the wall. Him grinning like none of it mattered. Me caring enough for both of us.
“At least I finished things,” I shoot back.
His smile turns dangerous. “You still think I don’t?”
For one reckless second, I want to step closer. To close the space myself, just to see if the pull eases or snaps.
The thought is so startling I physically still.
I open my mouth.
Stop.
Because the way he’s looking at me now, not joking at all, does something deeply inconvenient to my breathing.
We’re too close. I can smell him. Cedar and citrus. Unmistakably Nash. The bar noise dulls, or maybe I just stop noticing it. This is how mistakes happen, I think dimly. One breath at a time.
Neither of us speaks.
Then he exhales, running a hand over his face. “Look. I’m not doing this tonight.”
“Doing what?” I ask.
“This.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Whatever this is. Because if we keep going, someone’s gonna bring up the calculus exam incident.”
“You cheated,” I say instantly.
“I collaborated.”
“You wrote on your arm.”
“In pencil.”
I bite back a smile.
“Good,” I say, lifting my chin. “Because I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
His brow arches. “Really?”
“No,” I admit. “I came for answers.”
He studies me for a long beat, then shakes his head. “Figures.”
The tension shifts, not gone, never gone, but redirected. The sharp edge dulls just enough to breathe around.
“Drink?” he asks abruptly.
I blink. “Is that your idea of crowd control?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just don’t want the entire bar thinking we’re about to reenact senior year.”
I snort. “You still lost that argument.”
He grins, quick and real this time. “Only because you cheated.”
“I cited sources.”
“Dirty move.”
We stand there, the argument bleeding into banter as it always did, the heat settling into warmth instead of volatile disdain.
“Fine,” I say finally. “One drink.”
His eyes flick toward the bar, then back to me. “Just one?”
I smile thinly. “Don’t push it, fiancé.”
He laughs under his breath, stepping aside to let me pass.
And just like that, the fight dissolves temporarily.
But the spark?
That’s very much still there.