28. Tessa
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tessa
From the outside, it probably looks fine.
Two people in a line of neighbors and cousins who’ve known us since we were small enough to trip over our own boots, moving in time to a fiddle we’ve heard a thousand times. Nothing remarkable.
From the inside, it feels like standing on a fault line and pretending the ground isn’t humming.
Faith is clapping along from the edge of the floor, beaming like she personally orchestrated this moment. Boone stands behind her, arms crossed, watching Nash with the narrowed focus of an older brother who knows when something is off but hasn’t decided whether to intervene yet.
Everyone is watching.
Discretely, of course. Buckhorn doesn’t stare head-on—it watches sideways, through reflections and over shoulders.
And Nash…
Nash is dancing with me.
Sort of.
His movements are automatic, muscle memory carrying him through the steps even though his jaw is tight and his shoulders are rigid. I can feel the tension rolling off him, thick and restless.
He’s trying too hard not to look at me, which perversely makes me more aware of him.
The heat of his arm when we brush. The subtle hitch in his breathing when the line shifts and we end up closer than the choreography requires. The way his hand hovers, uncertain, when the move calls for contact.
I follow the steps cleanly. I always do. This is familiar ground for me. Pattern, rhythm, predictability. If I focus on the mechanics, I don’t have to focus on the fact that my pulse is sprinting.
Left. Right. Kick. Turn.
Nash stumbles half a step.
I hold him without thinking, fingers curling briefly into his sleeve.
His head snaps toward me.
For a split second, the noise drops away.
His eyes are dark. Focused. A little startled. Like he forgot where he was and just remembered.
Juniper House flashes through me uninvited, his hands warm and certain, the way he looked at me afterward as if he’d crossed a line.
I let go immediately.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His mouth tightens, and he looks forward again, jaw set, pulling himself back into the role.
The role.
That’s what this feels like now, more than it ever has before.
This is the performance.
The song ends, boots scuffing as someone whoops. Faith cheers like she’s watching a championship game.
Nash exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been underwater too long.
“Well,” I murmur, keeping my voice dry, “you survived.”
He shoots me a look. “That was touch and go.”
“I noticed,” I say. “Your posture was tragic.”
“Thank you for your support.”
“Anytime.”
We step off the dance floor, and the space between us fills immediately with people.
Congratulations. Smiles. Comments that range from warm to curious to sharp enough to draw blood.
“Look at you two!” Clara Jenkins gushes, grabbing my arm. “Just perfect.”
Perfect.
I smile politely. “Hi, Clara.”
Hank Lawson is near the back, beer in hand, eyes tracking us, seemingly watching a chessboard, not a dance. When Nash’s gaze flicks that way, his shoulders tense again.
I clock it.
Everything about him tonight is coiled. Held. He’s trying to keep everything contained and failing by degrees.
Maeve appears at my elbow, eyes bright with concern and barely restrained glee.
“You danced,” she whispers. “Voluntarily.”
“I was coerced,” I mutter.
She glances between me and Nash. “You both look… stressed.”
Nash snorts softly. “That’s our brand.”
Nash’s mouth twitches like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he gives Maeve a polite nod, murmurs something about grabbing a drink, and steps away from us with the kind of careful distance that feels intentional.
I watch him go, even though I don’t mean to.
I tell myself I’m just tracking movement in the room, clocking exits the way I always do, cataloguing where people stand and why.
But my eyes follow him anyway, across the barn floor, past the couples reforming lines, past Boone and Dallas, past the place where the light is dimmer and the music louder.
Toward the bar.
My heart sinks in a way I absolutely do not appreciate.
It’s ridiculous. He’s allowed to get a drink. This is a barn dance, not a hostage situation. He’s probably just overwhelmed. Probably just needs a minute to breathe without fifty sets of eyes on him.
I tell myself all of that.
None of it stops the hollow feeling that opens up in my chest as his back turns fully to me.
Maeve notices immediately. Of course she does.
She follows my line of sight, then looks back at me with an expression that’s half concern, half oh no, you’ve got it bad.
“Okay,” she says lightly, looping her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s get you some air. Or chili. Or both. Or neither. Just… away from the emotional blast radius.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Maeve hums. “You say that a lot right before you spiral.”
“I do not spiral.”
“You internalize aggressively,” she corrects. “It’s worse.”
I let her steer me a few steps toward the side of the barn, where the noise dulls just enough to think. I keep my posture easy, my expression neutral. If Nash is scanning the room, and I’m certain he is, I won’t give him anything to worry about.
That thought lands strangely.
If Nash is scanning the room.
When did I start factoring him into my awareness like this? Into my calculations? Into my emotional weather?
Maeve hands me a cup of cider from a passing tray. I take it without argument.
“Drink,” she orders. “It’ll make you look occupied.”
“Thank you for your strategic support.”
“Anytime,” she says. Then, softer, “You okay?”
I hesitate.
The truth presses up against my teeth, inconvenient and unhelpful.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He feels far away tonight.”
Maeve snorts. “You just danced with him.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She studies me for a long beat. “He’s not far away. He’s folded in on himself. There’s a difference.”
I glance toward the bar again.
Nash is there now, shoulder leaning against the wood, one elbow braced like he needs the support. He laughs at something Dallas says, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He tips his head back and takes a long drink, trying to swallow the noise.
I look away.
“Maybe this is better,” I say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere brittle. “We don’t need to be glued together all night. That would look suspicious.”
Maeve raises a brow. “Suspicious of what?”
“That we’re compensating.”
“For…?”
I shoot her a look. “Don’t.”
She grins, unapologetic. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Maybe,” she concedes. “But listen to yourself. You’re talking like this is a chess match.”
I wrap both hands around my cup. “That’s because Buckhorn is a chess match. And I’m currently a very visible piece.”
Maeve leans closer. “You’re allowed to be a person too, you know.”
“Not here,” I say quietly. “Not tonight.”
We stand there, watching the dance floor fill again. A slow song now. Couples drifting together, heads bowed, hands resting with the familiarity of people who know exactly where they belong.
I feel oddly untethered.
For years, I’ve known how to exist in rooms like this. How to smile just enough. How to deflect without offending. How to keep my heart neatly contained where no one can trip over it.
Nash McCoy has wrecked that system in under a month.
“I keep thinking I know what this is,” I say suddenly. “And then it shifts.”
Maeve’s gaze softens. “That’s called uncertainty.”
“I hate uncertainty.”
“I know.”
“I hate it,” I repeat. “I don’t do maybes. I do plans.”
Maeve tilts her head. “And he doesn’t.”
“No,” I shake my head. “He does instincts. And saying things like they’re obvious when they’re not.”
Maeve smiles faintly. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” I say. Then, more quietly, “And I can’t tell if he’s pulling away because he wants distance or because he’s afraid of what happens if he doesn’t.”
Maeve’s eyes flick back to the bar. “What do you think?”
I hesitate.
“I think he’s carrying something heavy,” I say. “And he doesn’t want to put it down where anyone can see.”
“Does that include you?”
“I don’t know where I stand with him,” I admit finally. “Not really. Not since Juniper House.”
Maeve’s expression shifts. “That night mattered.”
“Yes,” I say. “And I don’t know how it mattered.”
Maeve exhales slowly. “Have you tried asking him?”
I laugh, short and humorless. “In the middle of a barn dance? While half the town is waiting to see if we kiss?”
“No,” she says gently. “In general.”
I shake my head. “Every time I get close, he steps back. Every time I step back, he looks like he wants to follow. It’s…” I search for the word. “Disorienting.”
Maeve nudges my shoulder. “Welcome to liking someone.”
“I don’t like him,” I say automatically.
Maeve’s smile is patient. “Sure.”
I take a long drink of cider I don’t need.
Across the room, Nash shifts again, turning slightly, his gaze sweeping the barn.
It finds me.
My chest tightens.
I don’t chase him or wave. I don’t do anything that would look like need, because whatever this is, it’s already too close to the surface.
“I’ve never been this confused by a man in my life,” I say quietly.
Maeve squeezes my arm. “That’s usually how it starts.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
“I know,” she says. “But it’s an honest one.”