17. Nash #3
“I’m not pretending,” I say, and it comes out as a confession. “I’m trying.”
She laughs once, harsh. “Trying to what? Fix me?”
“No,” I snap. “Trying to figure out why you look like you’re carrying the weight of your whole damn family on your back.”
Her expression hardens.
Then she says, quieter, meaner, “Maybe because my family didn’t have the luxury of charming their way out of things.”
That makes my hands curl into fists.
“You think I’ve been charming my way out of things?” I say, shaking now. “You think I don’t work? You think I don’t care? You think this ranch is just some playground for me?”
Tessa stills. “You got to have it.”
“And you got to hate me for it,” I bite back.
She stiffens. “I didn’t choose this rivalry.”
“Neither did I,” I shout.
The sound bounces off the walls. It feels wrong in a house this quiet.
Tessa’s chest rises and falls fast. Her braid has come loose at the end, a few strands escaping, making her look less polished, more real.
And I’m standing here with a century-old journal in my hands, realizing my family’s legacy has a crack running through it, and the only person who understands the crack is the woman I’m pretending to love.
Only I don’t know what I’m pretending anymore.
That thought is terrifying.
It makes me angry.
So I do what I always do when I’m scared.
I push.
“You’re acting like my family is the villain,” I say. “But your family benefited too. You read it. We repaired fences, maintained the land, and shared profits. It wasn’t one-sided.”
Tessa’s voice is a razor. “And then you filed a claim.”
“And you shut the door,” I shoot back. “You cut us off. You turned it into war.”
She steps closer, face inches from mine. “Because you made it war.”
My breath catches.
Because she’s so close, I can smell her. Bergamot and leather and that crisp winter pine that makes my brain short-circuit.
Because her eyes flick to my mouth, same as they did in the kitchen.
Because my own body is making decisions my mind can’t keep up with.
“This is why we shouldn’t be doing this,” she says, shaking now too. “This is bigger than—”
“Than us?” I finish, and it comes out rough.
“Yes.”
I swallow hard. “But it is us now.”
Tessa’s breath stutters.
Her eyes harden, and I think she’s going to do the smart thing.
She’s going to step back and slam the door on the whole messy human part of this.
But then her gaze drops to my hand, still holding the journal, knuckles white, and everything shifts.
She looks… tired.
“I hate this,” she whispers.
I nod, throat tight. “Me too.”
Her eyes lift to mine again, and everything between us is humming.
Then she says, almost angry, “You’re a disaster.”
I let out a rough laugh. “I know.”
“And you’re…” She cuts herself off because the word got stuck. She almost said something she can’t take back.
I don’t let her retreat.
“Say it,” I whisper.
Her jaw clenches. “No.”
“Tessa,” I say, softer. “Say it.”
“You’re… not what I thought.”
I can’t breathe right.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s the crack. That’s the shift.
This rivalry has been a story. A script.
And now we’re looking at the original pages and realizing the script was written by people who were scared and hungry and proud.
People who made choices.
People who didn’t finish what they promised to finish.
And we’re standing here, two heirs, doing the same thing. Pretending, lying, trying to control outcomes instead of facing the truth.
I take a step closer, slowly, giving her a chance to stop it.
She doesn’t.
“Neither are you,” I murmur.
Her throat works as she swallows.
“And I…” I start, then stop, because the words are too big, and I’m not brave enough to say them in a room full of ghosts.
So I say the truth I can say.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Tessa blinks, thrown. “For what?”
“For my family only telling half the story,” I say roughly. “For me walking around town acting like this land is clean just because it’s ours on paper.”
Her eyes shine, and it makes my chest ache.
“Don’t,” she says quietly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be… honorable,” she snaps. “It makes it harder.”
I blink. “Harder to hate me?”
Her lips part.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have to.
I don’t know who moves first.
Maybe she does.
Maybe I do.
Maybe the air between us just finally collapses under everything we’re not saying.
But suddenly her hand is on my chest, gripping my coat, anchoring herself, and my own hand, free now because the journal slides on the desk, cups her jaw, gentle in a way that should be a sin.
And the kiss is lightning.
This kiss isn’t careful like the one on Founders’ Day.
It’s furious and reckless.
A collision. Teeth and breath and anger turning hotter because we don’t know what else to do with it.
Tessa kisses same as she argues. Thorough, relentless, as if she can win something by force.
I kiss her back with all of me.
Her fingers twist in my coat, pulling me closer, and I make a sound I don’t recognize because it’s half relief, half heartbreak.
Because kissing her in a room that holds the truth about our families feels wrong.
And somehow inevitable.