10. Tessa
CHAPTER TEN
Tessa
I should be furious.
I should be replaying the last twenty-four hours with clinical horror. His mouth, my bed, the lie big enough to swallow the town whole. I should be planning exactly how to dismantle Nash McCoy with facts, distance, and a well-timed exit.
Instead, I am… delighted.
It settles over me somewhere between my second sip of coffee and the way Nash visibly winces every time Martha Lou sets a plate down too hard.
Spurs Diner hums with its usual morning noise. Coffee pouring. Silverware clinking. The low murmur of Buckhorn gossip already stretching its legs for the day.
Nash sits across from me in the booth, shoulders slumped. His hair is a disaster. His jaw is tight. He looks like he lost a fight with his own decisions.
Good.
Martha Lou sets our plates down with a decisive thud.
“Eat,” she orders him. “You look like hell.”
“Morning to you too,” Nash mutters, poking at his eggs like they might bite back.
Jet slides in right behind her, coffee pot in hand, and stops short when she actually looks at us.
Her head tilts slowly, trying to make the picture in front of her line up with the last version of reality she remembers.
“So,” she says, dragging the word out as she tops off our mugs. “This is… new.”
I smile sweetly. “Good morning, Jet.”
Her gaze flicks between us, catching on the fact that we’re sitting across from each other instead of at opposite ends of the diner like usual.
“Did I miss something?” she asks cautiously.
“Yes,” Nash says immediately. “Several mistakes.”
Jet’s brows knit. “Okay, but last night you two were one heated comment away from a public reenactment of senior year.”
Nash groans and drops his forehead briefly onto the table.
Jet squints harder, clearly trying to solve a puzzle she doesn’t like the answer to.
“And,” she adds slowly, “aren’t you engaged? When are we going to get to meet this mysterious fiancée of yours?”
Nash makes a noise that sounds like physical pain.
Martha Lou snorts as she moves away, but Jet stays another beat, eyes sharp with curiosity and confusion.
“…Huh,” she says finally, then wanders off, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like this town is gonna explode.
She has no idea.
I stir my coffee slowly, watching Nash squint at his plate.
“This is rough for you,” I say pleasantly.
He lifts his head just enough to glare at me. “Please don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting,” I shoot back. “You lied to the entire town.”
“I panicked,” he hisses back.
“You invented a relationship.”
“I needed time. I already told you that.”
“You slept with your enemy.”
His jaw tightens. “You did not seem like an enemy last night.”
I lean in, keeping my smile firmly in place for anyone watching. “Careful, McCoy. You’re one comment away from choking on your hash browns.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “This is not funny.”
“No,” I agree softly. “It’s useful.”
That gets his attention.
I lean back in the booth, crossing my arms, studying him properly now. The charm is muted this morning, buried under consequences and caffeine withdrawal. What’s left is raw.
This is the Nash McCoy people don’t see.
And it’s exactly why this is better than anything I could have planned.
“You told me there’s no fiancée,” I say quietly. “Which means the council is operating under false pretenses.”
“Yes.”
“And my uncle is already convinced you’re up to something,” I continue. “Which means he’s going to dig.”
Nash’s mouth tightens. “I figured.”
“If he finds nothing,” I say calmly, “then fine. You’re just reckless. If he finds something…” I pause. “Then we have a problem.”
Jet reappears. She knows better than to walk away. “Y’all want pie?”
“Not now,” Nash says automatically.
“I’ll take some,” I say immediately.
Jet grins. “Of course you will.”
She sets it down and walks away, still glancing over her shoulder. She expects us to start throwing punches or rings.
When she’s gone, Nash leans forward. “You don’t actually think there’s something shady going on with the ranch.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But my uncle does. And that means I need to know exactly what you’re building, where, and why.”
His brows knit. “So this breakfast is an interrogation.”
“It’s a conversation,” I correct. “One where you don’t get to charm your way out of answers.”
He snorts quietly. “You always hated that.”
“I hate incompetence,” I reply. “Charm just makes it suspicious.”
He hesitates. “You don’t actually think the guest ranch idea is bad.”
I pause.
“I don’t,” I say carefully. “It’s smart. Sustainable. Annoyingly thoughtful.” I meet his gaze. “Which makes the lie worse.”
His shoulders sag. “I didn’t want them to dismiss it because of me.”
“And so you made yourself look worse,” I whisper.
He lets out a humorless breath. “When you put it like that…”
“I always do.”
I take a bite of pie, then set my fork down.
“There’s a solution,” I say.
Nash stiffens. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You already lied about being engaged,” I continue. “The town believes it. The council hesitated because of it. If that illusion collapses now, you’re done.”
“I know,” he mutters.
“So don’t let it collapse.”
He looks up sharply. “What?”
I meet his gaze. “You need a fiancée.”
Silence.
His mouth opens. Closes. Then his head shakes ferociously.
“No,” he whispers fiercely. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I tilt my head. “Then I suppose the council finds out you fabricated commitment to manipulate them.”
His jaw clenches. “You’d destroy my project out of spite?”
“Out of accuracy,” I correct. “But I don’t want to.”
That stops him.
“You don’t,” he says slowly.
“No,” I admit. “I want the truth. And if my uncle is wrong, I want proof.”
“And how does you pretending to be my fiancée help with that?” he asks.
I smile faintly. “Because it puts me exactly where I need to be—around the meetings, the plans. If there’s something you’re hiding, or something you don’t even know, you won’t be able to keep it from me.”
“And your uncle?”
“I’ll tell him this is the only way I can keep an eye on you,” I say. “If he’s right, I'll expose it. If he’s wrong…” I shrug. “Then maybe everyone learns something.”
Nash stares at me like I’ve suggested arson. “This is insane.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But you don’t have much choice.”
He laughs once, sharp and quiet. “You really enjoy this.”
“I enjoy leverage,” I reply.
He looks down at the table. Then back at me. “And if I say no?”
I sip my coffee. “Then I walk out of here and let Buckhorn do what it does best.”
The silence stretches.
Finally, he exhales.
“…Fine,” he mutters. “But this is temporary.”
“Of course,” I say sweetly. “Just long enough to convince everyone.”
“And you won’t enjoy this.”
I smile.
“Oh, Nash,” I say softly. “I already am.”
I lean forward, lowering my tone until it blends into the clatter and hum of the diner.
“If we’re doing this,” I say, “we’re doing it correctly.”
His shoulders tense. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Engagements aren’t vague in Buckhorn,” I continue. “They’re communal. Visible. Everyone expects proof.”
He grimaces. “What kind of proof?”
“A ring.”
He blinks. “A… what?”
“A ring,” I repeat calmly. “Not something new. That would raise questions. It needs history. Weight.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t just—”
“I do,” I cut in.
That stops him.
“My grandmother has rings,” I say. “Family pieces. The kind people recognize without remembering where they’ve seen them before.”
His brows knit. “She’d give you one?”
“I’ll borrow it.”
“That feels worse,” he mutters.
“It feels convincing,” I counter. “Which is the point.”
He studies me, recalibrating again. “Your family supplying the ring makes this complicated.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Which means no one will suspect it’s fake.”
He exhales. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“I think under pressure,” I remind him. “Unlike you.”
He snorts quietly. “Low blow.”
“We’re seen together,” I continue. “In public, consistently. No sneaking around. No avoiding eye contact across rooms.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You’ll manage.”
“We attend town events,” I add. “Founders’ Day, church socials, the winter festival. We sit together at the barn dance.”
His mouth twists. “People are gonna talk.”
“That’s the idea.”
“And affection?” he asks carefully.
“We don’t overdo it,” I say. “But we don’t flinch, either. We look comfortable. Familiar. Like this isn’t new, only newly noticed.”
He swallows.
“And the council?” he asks.
“You defer to me on anything involving land near Long property,” I reply. “It makes you look cooperative instead of reckless.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
He watches me for a long moment, then lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You realize you’re very good at this.”
“I know.”
“And what do you get out of it?” he asks, softer now.
I don’t answer immediately. I watch the steam curl up from my coffee. Listen to Buckhorn waking up around us.
“Control,” I say finally. “Clarity. And answers.”
He nods slowly. “And if there aren’t any?”
“Then I’ll say so.”
“And rules?” he asks.
“Oh, absolutely,” I reply. “No lying to each other. No improvising without warning me.”
He winces. “That’s a personal attack.”
“And,” I add, “no falling in love.”
That one lands heavier than the rest. He goes very still.
“Right,” he says after a beat. “Of course. That I think we can do, right?”
I stand, sliding out of the booth and grabbing my coat. “I’ll bring the ring tomorrow,” I add lightly. “We’ll need a story. When it ‘clicked.’”
He stares up at me. “You’re terrifying.”
I smile. “Finish your breakfast, fiancé.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He shakes his head, resigned.
“What am I getting myself into?”
Thomas isn’t home when I get back.
His office light is on, but the chair is empty, and the phone line is busy.
I leave a note on his blotter.
I have an angle. I’m getting close to McCoy. I’ll brief you when I see you next. Don’t make calls until we talk.
Then I go find my grandmother. Because if I’m going to do this, I need the ring first.