12. Tessa #2
“Tonight,” I confirm. “Tomorrow, it’s church chatter and bakery questions and people deciding this is old news.”
“And while they stop watching,” he says slowly, “you start looking.”
“Exactly.”
He nods once, decisive. “Fine. Go.”
Nell reaches for her knitting again, the matter settled.
“But,” Thomas adds, eyes locking on mine, “you don’t forget why you’re there.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t soften.”
I lift my chin. “I don’t soften.”
He studies me for another beat, then looks away. “Then go enjoy your date.”
I stand.
As I leave the room, the plan settles squarely on my shoulders.
Nash picks me up at six on the dot.
Which, frankly, is already suspicious.
I’m just fastening my coat when headlights sweep across the front windows.
I glance outside and spot his truck pulled neatly to the curb, engine idling, lights dimmed.
He’s trying not to announce himself, an effort already rendered pointless by the fact that Mrs. Henley across the street is absolutely watching from behind her curtains.
Of course she is.
I step outside and close the door carefully behind me.
Nash gets out of the truck immediately, like he’s been rehearsing good behavior. He’s dressed better than usual. Dark jacket, clean boots, hair still doing that infuriating thing where it looks effortless even when it clearly isn’t.
He smiles when he sees me.
That familiar, easy smile that usually makes me want to argue on principle alone.
“You look nice,” he says.
“You look… punctual,” I reply. “I assume this is part of the performance.”
He laughs. “I’m trying to survive.”
I walk past him toward the passenger door. “Then you should know I’ve already had a full day of people congratulating me on marrying you.”
He winces. “That bad?”
“Clara Jenkins offered to start baking wedding pies.”
“Okay, yeah,” he says. “That’s dire.”
He opens the truck door for me, exaggerated and polite. I pause just long enough to make him wonder if I’m going to comment on it.
I don’t.
Buckhorn is already buzzing when we pull onto Main Street. Trucks angled into parking spots. Couples strolling. Someone laughing too loudly outside the diner. Christmas lights still strung across the road, twinkling like the town is pretending it isn’t January.
Nash parks, kills the engine, then looks at me.
“So,” he says. “Where are we going, fiancée?”
I arch a brow. “You’re asking me?”
“You’re terrifyingly prepared,” he says. “I assumed you had a route.”
I open my door. “We walk.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” I say. “If we sit somewhere too long, people will listen.”
He snorts. “You’ve thought about this way too much.”
I glance at him. “You’ve thought about this not nearly enough.”
He falls into step beside me easily, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. The town notices immediately. I can feel it, the pause, the recalibration, the quiet thrill of new information spreading as a current.
“Okay,” he murmurs, low. “Rule check. Do we hold hands?”
“Only if it feels natural,” I say.
He glances down. “That sounds like a trap.”
“It is.”
We make it three steps before Penny Tucker practically trips over herself coming out of Buckhorn Feed & Supply.
“Oh wow,” she breathes, eyes locked on our hands, which are not touching yet, thank you very much. “It’s true.”
“Yes,” I say calmly.
Nash smiles like this is all very charming and not a logistical nightmare. “Hi, Penny.”
She squeals. Literally squeals. “I knew it! Grandpa owes me ten dollars.”
She scurries off before either of us can respond.
Nash watches her go. “Do I ask?”
“No.”
“Good.”
We reach the bakery window, and Clara is already inside, peering out with unmistakable interest.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “I feel like I’m being paraded.”
“You are,” I reply. “Try not to spook.”
“That hurts.”
“Accurate, though.”
He bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “You’re enjoying this.”
I glance at him. “You’re not?”
He considers that. “I like being walked around like a prize less than you do.”
“That’s because you are a prize,” I say blandly. “I’m the handler.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’re ruthless.”
We stop near the town square, lights twinkling around the gazebo. Nash finally turns to face me fully.
“You’re very good at this,” he says quietly.
I meet his gaze. “You’re less terrible than expected.”
“High praise.”
“Earned,” I allow.
A couple passes us, smiling knowingly. Nash hesitates, then reaches out, fingers brushing mine.
I don’t pull away. I let him lace his fingers through mine.
There it is. The click.
The town exhales around us like it’s just been waiting for that one detail.
His hand is warm. Annoyingly calming.
“Comfortable,” I murmur. “Good choice.”
“I’m learning,” he says. “Slowly.”
We stand there, hand in hand, watching Buckhorn watch us.
This is working.
And that realization is far more dangerous than I want to admit.
“Ready?” he asks.
“For what?”
He smiles, easy and unguarded. “For whatever comes next.”
I squeeze his hand once.
“Don’t get sentimental,” I say. “This is just the first date.”
His thumb brushes my knuckle.
“Sure,” he says. “Whatever you say, Tessa.”
And somehow, against all logic and planning, I believe him.
Which is a problem I will deal with later.