14. Tessa
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tessa
I did not expect to enjoy this.
That’s the first mistake of the day.
Enjoyment is a liability. And I don’t usually let liabilities breathe.
Founders’ Day is supposed to be exhausting. Crowds, noise, stories I already know filtered through nostalgia and selective memory. I came prepared to endure it. Smile when required. Hold Nash’s hand when necessary. Maintain the illusion.
Instead, somewhere between Dottie Mae Carter crackling through the microphone and the way the winter sun catches on the gazebo lights, I realize something inconvenient.
I’m having fun.
The realization settles uneasily in my chest as I stand near the edge of the town square, wrapped in my coat, surrounded by Buckhorn’s collective memory. The town feels fuller today. Louder, reminding itself it still exists.
And Nash McCoy is… different here.
Not the man who panics at town council meetings or stumbles through lies with charm as a shield. Not the boy I competed with in school, always smiling like nothing mattered enough to wound him.
Here, he kneels to talk to children eagerly. He listens to elders without interrupting, nodding as if every story is worth holding onto. He laughs easily, but there’s a steadiness under it I didn’t expect. He’s finally standing on ground that fits him.
It complicates things.
I’ve spent years refining my narrative about Nash McCoy. Reckless. A man who skates through life because the town lets him.
Watching him now, letting Ellie chatter at him while he crouches to her level, watching him accept Virgil Tucker’s gruff comments with patience instead of defensiveness, cracks that narrative right down the middle.
I don’t like it.
Maeve does.
She appears at my elbow with a cup of cocoa and the kind of smile that tells me she’s enjoying my discomfort far too much.
“So,” she says lightly. “When did irritation turn into… whatever this is?”
I don’t look at her. “It hasn’t.”
She hums. “Interesting. Because you’re smiling.”
“I smile in public,” I reply. “It’s called social competence.”
“You’re smiling at him,” she counters.
I glance toward Nash, who is currently listening to Dottie Mae with exaggerated solemnity. He catches me looking and lifts his brows slightly, a silent you okay?
I look away so fast I nearly strain myself.
Maeve watches me for another beat, then her tone shifts. Less teasing. More careful.
“Also,” she says quietly, “your uncle was at the library this morning.”
My shoulders tighten. “Doing what?”
“Requesting old council minutes. Pre-fifties. Land committee stuff.” She studies my face. “He didn’t look surprised by anything he found.”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“So,” Maeve continues lightly, like she didn’t just detonate something, “whatever this is with Nash… you might want to stay very clear on which parts are strategy.”
“And which parts aren’t,” I murmur.
She smiles. “Exactly.”
Before I can respond, the music starts.
Someone lifts a fiddle like an afterthought, another joins in, and suddenly the space in front of the gazebo clears.
People pair off easily. Couples who’ve done this for decades. Familiar hands finding familiar places. Comfort in motion.
Nash is suddenly in front of me.
He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t take my hand as if it’s a foregone conclusion. He waits, weight balanced, shoulders loose, eyes on mine like he’s braced for refusal.
“Dance?” he asks quietly.
It’s not the word that steals my breath.
It’s the restraint.
I hesitate.
Not because of the town. The town is noise. The town is manageable.
Because of us.
Because we already crossed a line in the dark and warmth and privacy, and now we’re standing in daylight pretending that line doesn’t exist. Because I don’t know how to touch him now without remembering how easily it happened before.
Still, I nod.
He exhales, soft, almost imperceptible, and steps closer.
It’s a bit awkward at first. We’re both recalibrating where we’re allowed to place ourselves now. His hand hovers for half a second before settling at my waist, fingers warm even through wool, checking whether I’ll pull away.
I don’t.
My hand finds his shoulder, light at first, then steadier, and the contact is immediate and electric in a way that makes my breath catch.
We don’t dance so much as sway, bodies finding a rhythm without permission. Boots scuff snow. Laughter drifts. The fiddle carries the tune like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
I am suddenly aware of everything.
The heat of him.
The way his thumb flexes once at my side and then stills, reining himself in.
The way my pulse feels too loud in my ears.
And how easy it is.
That’s the most dangerous part.
“You’re thinking again,” Nash murmurs, mouth near my temple, voice pitched low enough that it’s meant only for me.
“I always think,” I reply.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But this is the heavy kind.”
I don’t answer because he’s right, and because the words are stuck somewhere between my throat and my chest.
The music slows.
The space between us tightens without either of us moving closer. The world narrows to the feel of his hand at my waist and the way my body seems to recognize his before my brain can object.
Nash looks down at me.
And finally, I see it.
Hesitation. He’s asking without asking.
My heart is pounding hard enough that I’m sure he can feel it through his hand at my waist. Every breath comes shallow, uneven.
My body has decided something before I have.
The space between us tightens, charged and unbearable, and I can’t tell anymore whether I’m leaning toward him or he’s being pulled toward me.
Then he leans in, following the pull of it too.
The kiss isn’t rushed or showy. It’s careful, and it still shocks me. My pulse stutters as his mouth brushes mine, soft, restrained, and entirely too familiar. It feels less like a choice and more like gravity finally winning.
This isn’t leverage anymore.
Leverage doesn’t make my hands shake.
The town reacts like it’s been holding its breath. A collective exhale. Applause breaks out somewhere. Someone whistles, sharp and approving.
But I barely hear it.
Because the kiss doesn’t feel like it’s for them.
It feels like a line being crossed again. Public this time, undeniable.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t smile.
He searches my face instead, eyes dark, uncertain, waiting to see if I regret it.
I don’t know what expression I give him.
I only know my heart is racing and my thoughts are scattered, and nothing feels neatly categorized anymore.
I offer a small smile because that’s what’s expected.
Because the town is watching.
Because I don’t yet know what to do with the way that kiss still hums through me as an aftershock.
Inside, everything is unsettled.
The song winds down gently, reluctant to let go of the moment it created.
The fiddle’s last note hangs in the air, thin and bright, before dissolving into applause and laughter and the scrape of boots as couples separate. The world rushes back in all at once, too fast after how narrow everything just was.
Nash’s hand remains at my waist for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he lets go.
The absence is immediate. Startling.
“Well,” he says quietly, the word rough around the edges. “That was… Founders’ Day appropriate.”
I huff out a sound that might be a laugh if I weren’t still trying to remember how to breathe. “Barely.”
His mouth tilts, but his eyes are still searching my face, trying to read the aftermath. I give him nothing useful. Control snaps back into place, a familiar, welcome weight.
I step back first.
“I should…” I gesture vaguely toward the edge of the square, where I already know my grandmother is seated. “Go check on my grandma.”
His shoulders ease a fraction—he’s relieved to have something practical to anchor to. “Yeah. Okay.”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll… be here,” he adds, unnecessarily.
I nod. “Good.”
Then I turn before either of us can say something we’re not ready to own.
Grandma is seated near the gazebo, wrapped in her wool coat, knitting needles moving with intense precision. She looks exactly as she always does. Composed, observant, quietly aware of everything happening within a fifty-foot radius.
My uncle stands beside her.
Which is not ideal.
Thomas has his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression stoic. He looks like a man watching a chessboard three moves ahead, and I know without asking that he saw the kiss.
Everyone saw the kiss.
Grandma’s eyes flick to me as I approach, sharp and warm all at once.
“Well,” she says mildly, “that caused a stir.”
I sit on the bench beside her, smoothing my coat as if it might smooth my thoughts. “It was… spontaneous.”
“Those are often the most interesting kind,” she replies.
Thomas clears his throat. “It was effective.”
I look up at him sharply. “Excuse me?”
He meets my gaze evenly. “The town believes in it now. Whatever doubts remained, they’re quieter.”
Of course that’s what he takes from it.
“Belief is a delicate thing,” Grandma says calmly. “It doesn’t like being handled roughly.”
Thomas’s jaw tightens. “We’re not handling it. We’re using it.”
I turn fully toward him. “I’m aware of the plan.”
“Good,” he says. “Then you understand why tonight mattered.”
“I understand why you think it mattered,” I reply coolly. “That doesn’t mean I enjoyed being used as proof.”
His brows knit. “You’re the one who suggested—”
“I suggested leverage,” I cut in. “Not theater.”
Why am I taking this out on him? It wasn’t even his idea for the kiss. I just can’t seem to get my pulse to slow down enough to think clearly.
Because he’s not wrong. That’s the worst part. The kiss was effective. I can already feel the shift in the square behind us. The way the town relaxed, satisfied. A box had been neatly ticked. Engaged. Confirmed. Settled.
But that doesn’t explain why my chest still feels tight, or why my hands are faintly unsteady at my sides.
I draw a careful breath. Then another.
Grandma places a gentle hand on my arm, calming without silencing. “Enough. Both of you.” She looks at Thomas first. “You got what you wanted tonight. Let that be sufficient.” Then she turns to me, eyes softening. “And you, my dear, looked happy.”
The word lands harder than I expect.
“I was managing,” I say automatically.
She hums, unconvinced. “You’ve managed things your whole life. This looked different.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Appearances can be misleading.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But sometimes they reveal more than we intend.”
Thomas shifts his weight, clearly irritated by the direction of this conversation. “We should focus on what comes next.”
“We will,” Grandma says calmly. “But not this second.”
She studies me for a long moment, then smiles. Small, genuine, unsettling in its tenderness.
“It’s been a while,” she says quietly, “since I’ve seen you let yourself be seen.”
My chest tightens.
I glance back toward the square without meaning to.
Nash is standing where I left him, talking with Boone and Dallas now, hands moving as he speaks, laughter breaking across his face. He looks lighter.
I stand. “I need a drink.”
Nell reaches for my hand as I rise and squeezes once, pride and reassurance in the gesture, something dangerously close to hope beneath it.
“You’re doing well,” she murmurs. “Just remember, strategy is strongest when it doesn’t require you to lie to yourself.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure what truth she means.
As I step away, the sounds of Founders’ Day wash over me again. Music restarting, laughter rising, the town continuing on as if nothing irrevocable just happened.
But something has.
The kiss still hums through me—not as a mistake or a triumph, but as a question. And I’m not entirely certain I want to control the answer.