24. Tessa #2
I stare down at the table.
My fingers curl around the edge like it might anchor me.
“Yes,” I admit. “Things happened.”
Maeve blinks slowly.
“Plural,” she says faintly.
I shoot her a warning look.
Maeve holds up both hands in surrender, but her eyes are lit with shock and concern and a kind of careful curiosity.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I’m not judging.”
I swallow.
“It wasn’t planned,” I say.
Maeve snorts. “Nothing in your life is planned except your file labels.”
I exhale sharply, half laugh, half sigh.
“Is it… bad?”
I look up at her. My chest tightens. “No. That’s the problem.”
Maeve’s expression shifts again, the humor fading. “Ah, it’s good.”
I stare at my hands. “It’s complicated.”
Maeve reaches across the table again, tapping my knuckles lightly. “Do you like him?”
“I… I don’t know how I feel.”
“That’s a yes.” She shrugs. “I’ve known you since we were twelve. I know what your face does when you’re lying.”
My jaw tightens.
“Tessa,” she says, “I’ve been here through this whole rivalry with you. The entire time. I’ve listened to you call him reckless and privileged and infuriating for years.”
“I wasn’t wrong,” I mutter.
Maeve lifts a brow. “And now?”
“Now… I don’t think I was fully right either.”
“And does he like you?”
Instantly, I shake my head, but internally, my stomach cramps. “No, this is just a part of the plan. A plan that I guess I need to make a move on, right?”
Maeve gives me a look, but that’s something I cannot deal with right now.
One problem at a time.
“Is this weird?” I ask Nash as he chews his food. “Being in Spurs Diner? On a date?”
I glance around to see the eyes of the town upon us. I know that’s what we want to make this engagement seem realistic, but still…
My heart keeps skipping a beat.
I can’t stop thinking about what’s happened between us.
“Is it weird,” he says slowly, “or is it useful?”
I blink. “Those are not the same thing.”
His mouth quirks. “In Buckhorn? They usually are.”
I glance around again, taking in the low-stakes drama.
Clara is two booths over, pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
Hank is at the counter, laughing too loud, pausing just long enough between laughs to clock where Nash’s hand is resting on the table.
Mrs. Halloway is whispering to her sister like she’s narrating wildlife.
Engaged wildlife.
“I feel like we’re on display,” I mutter. “It’s stressful.”
“That’s kind of the point,” he says gently. “They expect to see us together. They expect it to look… normal.”
He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and without looking, slides his knee just a fraction closer to mine under the table.
It’s subtle.
Intentional.
Completely unnecessary.
My pulse stutters like it’s missed a step.
“And does this feel normal to you?” I ask, aiming for dry and landing somewhere closer to brittle.
“No,” he says honestly. “But it feels right.”
That is absolutely not what I was prepared for.
I open my mouth, then close it again because my brain has temporarily vacated the premises.
All I can really think about is the feel of his hands all over me.
I clear my throat like that might reboot my brain.
It does not.
What it does do is draw Nash’s attention back to my face, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he knows exactly where my thoughts just went and is choosing mercy.
Mostly.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Totally fine. Just… thinking.”
His brow arches. “About?”
“Pie,” I blurt.
He glances toward Clara Jenkins’s booth, where she is absolutely still pretending to read the menu she has memorized since 1987. “Dangerous topic in this building.”
“I panicked,” I mutter. “My brain left.”
He snorts softly and takes another bite of his burger, chewing, a man unbothered by the fact that half the town is mentally planning our wedding favors.
Across the diner, Mrs. Halloway gasps and stage-whispers something to her sister while gesturing with her fork.
Nash follows my line of sight.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “We’re really being assessed.”
“For what?” I ask, trying my hardest to lean into the here and now. “Vibes? Body language? Whether we’re holding hands the correct amount for an engaged couple who are definitely in love and definitely not spiraling?”
“Relax,” he says. “You’re doing great.”
I squint at him, wondering how he got to be the calm one for a change. “I am sitting stiffly, overthinking my posture, and trying not to remember things that are wildly inappropriate for a booth with vinyl seats.”
“That’s very on brand for you,” he says kindly.
I kick him under the table.
He grins and leans back, stretching his arm along the top of the booth, settling into a role he was born for.
Which, unfortunately, he was.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s give them a show.”
My stomach flips. “I don’t like the way you said that.”
“Nothing scandalous,” he promises. “Just… normal engaged couple behavior.”
He reaches out and, without ceremony, takes my hand.
“Normal,” he says casually, thumb brushing the side of my hand once. “See? Very wholesome.”
Hank Lawson clears his throat loudly from the counter.
Nash doesn’t even look at him. He just squeezes my hand once, gentle but unmistakable, anchoring me in place.
My pulse is absolutely unhelpful.
“Smile,” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth. “Clara’s watching.”
I plaster something onto my face that might pass as joy or might read as a hostage situation.
Nash leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Too much teeth,” he says quietly.
“Don’t micromanage my fake happiness.”
“Sorry.”
The waitress swings by again, eyes bright with curiosity. “Everything tasting alright?”
“Perfect,” Nash says easily. He doesn’t look at me when he adds, “Isn’t it, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
I choke on air.
“Y… yes,” I manage. “Great. Love it. Big fan of… food.”
The waitress beams. “You two are just the cutest.”
She walks away.
I stare straight ahead.
“Did you just call me sweetheart?” I hiss.
“You panicked,” he whispers back. “I panicked louder.”
“I am never living this down.”
“Buckhorn will absolutely remember this forever,” he says cheerfully. “Possibly put it in the paper.”
I groan and drop my forehead toward the table.
Nash laughs under his breath, warm and quiet, and shifts closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
I inhale. Exhale.
Unfortunately, his knee is still right there.
“So,” I say, desperately changing the subject, “do engaged couples normally interrogate each other about historical land disputes over burgers?”
“Only the romantic ones,” he says.
I glance at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
He considers that, then shrugs. “I’m enjoying you being flustered. It’s rare.”
I glare. “I am not flustered.”
“Your voice went up an octave when the waitress said ‘cutest,’” he points out.
“That was allergies.”
“In January.”
“Yes.”
He grins again, and I hate that it does things to me.
I look down at our still joined hands.
He hasn’t let go, and neither have I.