36. Tessa
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Tessa
“I’m not going.”
Maeve stands in the doorway of my office at Town Hall with her arms crossed and the stubborn expression she reserves for situations in which she has already decided the outcome and merely intends to shepherd me toward it.
“You are,” she replies calmly.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
I close the file in front of me with more force than necessary and look up at her. “Maeve, I would rather reorganize the entire municipal records archive than attend a Valentine’s Day charity auction tonight.”
Her mouth twitches. “That’s a dramatic statement coming from someone who voluntarily reorganized the municipal records archive last fall.”
“That was productive.”
“And tonight is social.”
“Which is precisely the problem.”
Maeve steps fully into the office and leans against the edge of my desk. “You cannot hide in here forever, Tessa.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You absolutely are.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words stall because, unfortunately, she isn’t wrong.
For the past two days, I have been working late, arriving early, and finding increasingly creative reasons to remain inside Town Hall long after most people have gone home.
The building has become a convenient refuge from the town itself, which at the moment feels like a crowded room where everyone already knows a story about me that I did not intend to tell.
The council meeting did not remain contained within the chamber.
It never does in Buckhorn.
By the next morning, the entire town had opinions.
Some people looked at me with open curiosity, as if they had just discovered a particularly entertaining piece of gossip. Others avoided eye contact altogether, their silence carrying the unmistakable strain of judgment.
And then there were the sympathetic looks.
Those, somehow, have been the worst.
Maeve watches my expression carefully.
“You’ve spent two days avoiding everyone,” she says gently. “If you skip the auction tonight, people will notice.”
“People have already noticed.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “But hiding will only make them talk more.”
The Valentine’s Day charity auction is one of Buckhorn’s most beloved traditions, which is unfortunate because it means nearly everyone in town will be there.
“You realize,” I say slowly, “that walking into that room will feel like stepping into a courtroom.”
Maeve shrugs. “Then we’ll treat it like jury duty. You sit through the awkward parts, and eventually they release you.”
I sigh. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s friendship.”
After a long moment, I give up the battle, because against Maeve, I never win. “Fine. Whatever.”
Maeve grins. “Excellent.”
“I still hate this.”
“You’re going to look amazing while hating it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That sounds suspiciously like a plan.”
“Oh, it absolutely is. Come on, we’re going to mine.”
Maeve’s house becomes a staging ground.
That is the only accurate way to describe what happens next.
Within ten minutes of arriving, I find myself sitting on a stool in her bathroom while she rummages through a collection of makeup products that appears large enough to support a small theatrical production.
“I regret this already,” I mutter.
“You regret everything,” Maeve replies cheerfully.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
She spins toward me, holding two dresses. “Option one: sophisticated heartbreak.”
I blink. “And option two?”
“Devastating revenge.”
I stare at her. “I’m attending a charity auction.”
“Exactly.”
She holds the dresses up in front of me like a stylist evaluating a celebrity client.
The first is a deep green dress with long sleeves and a soft drape that looks elegant and quietly dangerous.
The second is red.
Very red.
“I refuse to wear the red one,” I say immediately.
Maeve tilts her head. “You didn’t even try it on.”
“It looks like a warning sign.”
“That’s the point.”
“I’m not making a statement.”
“You absolutely are.”
“This is just an event, Maeve.”
“After your fake engagement exploded at a town council meeting,” Maeve reminds me. “There’s no point trying to blend into the background. It won’t work anyway.”
I sigh.
“Green,” I say firmly.
Maeve considers this. “Fine. But we’re doing the hair.”
“My hair is already done.”
“Tessa, your hair is in a braid.”
“That’s done.”
Maeve reaches behind my head and begins pulling pins free before I can stop her.
“My hair is functional.”
“Your hair is hiding,” she chuckles.
“My hair is efficient.”
“Your hair,” she declares, shaking it loose around my shoulders, “is gorgeous.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as she begins working a curling iron through the strands. “This is unnecessary.”
“It’s strategic.”
“Strategic for what?”
Maeve meets my eyes in the mirror. “For reminding Buckhorn that you are not the tragic heroine of their gossip story.”
A moment passes.
Then she smiles.
“You’re the woman who walks into the room and makes them nervous.”
Despite myself, I laugh softly.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of the mirror wearing the green dress, my hair falling in soft waves around my shoulders instead of its usual practical braid.
Maeve steps back with a satisfied expression. “There.”
I examine my reflection.
I look… different.
Less the careful administrator Buckhorn expects.
More someone who might actually belong at a Valentine’s Day auction.
“You look incredible,” Maeve says.
“I look like someone who made questionable decisions.”
“That too.”
I glance at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I take a sharp breath and reach for my coat.
“Well,” I say, “let’s go face the jury.”
Maeve grins. “That’s the spirit.” Then she pauses. “And Tessa?”
“Yes?”
“If Nash McCoy is there…”
I stare at her. “Maeve.”
“I’m just saying, we can make a plan…”
I shake my head and head for the door, not planning for anything. Because if life is kind to me, he won’t be there at all. I’ll never have to see him again.
The rodeo hall is already buzzing when we arrive.
Music drifts through the open doors along with the warm smell of chili and cider, and the windows shine against the dark February evening like the entire building has decided to impersonate a Hallmark movie.
Maeve pauses on the steps and turns to me. “Shoulders back.”
“I’m standing normally.”
“You’re standing like someone preparing to defend a thesis.”
“I’m emotionally preparing for social interaction.”
She sighs dramatically and reaches out to physically square my shoulders. “There. Human posture.”
“I resent this coaching.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
We step inside.
No one notices us at first. The room is full of laughter and overlapping conversations while people move between the silent auction tables and the bar.
Then Clara Jenkins looks up.
Her expression freezes.
“Oh,” she says.
Which is apparently enough to start a chain reaction.
Virgil Tucker turns. Then Becca Haskins. Then two ranchers near the chili table. Conversations falter one by one, the way the wind slowly dies across a field.
A pause here. A whisper there.
“…that’s her.”
“…after the council…”
“…do you think she knew?”
The words don’t reach me clearly, but the tone does.
Maeve leans slightly closer to me.
“Do not panic,” she murmurs.
“I’m not panicking. But everyone is staring.”
“I noticed.”
The room isn’t silent, but the shift is unmistakable, and it isn’t exactly kind. Heads turn. A few people whisper. Someone actually bumps into a chair while trying to look casual about looking directly at me.
Maeve beams.
“Well,” she says softly, “that makeover was clearly the correct strategic choice.”
“I hate this.”
“You look incredible. Don’t forget that.”
Clara recovers first and hurries toward us, flour still somehow on her sleeve despite the formal event.
“Tessa Long,” she announces with the enthusiasm of someone who has just discovered a plot twist. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Clara.”
She glances between Maeve and me with obvious delight. “We were just talking about you.”
Maeve mutters under her breath, “I bet you were.”
Clara continues cheerfully. “You’ve missed all the early bidding! Someone paid two hundred dollars for a date with Virgil.”
Virgil raises his cup proudly from across the room.
Maeve leans toward me again. “See? Harmless.”
I take a slow breath.
Maybe she’s right.
The room gradually settles back into something that resembles its usual rhythm, but it’s thinner now. People return to their conversations, though I can feel the occasional glance drifting in my direction like a curious breeze.
We move toward the drinks table.
“You survived the entrance,” Maeve says.
“I feel like a zoo exhibit.”
“That’s just Buckhorn adjusting to the idea that you’re hot.”
I give her a flat look.
She grins.
The auctioneer climbs onto the stage a few minutes later, clapping his hands together with the theatrical enthusiasm of a man who has waited all year for this moment.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Back to bidding.”
The crowd cheers.
Maeve leans against the table beside me. “Here we go.”
Cowboys climb onto the stage amid laughter and exaggerated introductions. The bidding starts low and quickly escalates as people compete for trail rides, dinners, and ranch tours.
Despite everything, the room feels… lighter than it has in days.
Buckhorn may thrive on gossip, but it also thrives on ridiculous community events, and eventually, the laughter starts to feel contagious.
Maeve nudges my elbow. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
I glance toward the stage again as another cowboy tips his hat dramatically to the crowd.
The tight knot in my chest loosens slightly.
Maybe tonight will be manageable.
Maybe Nash won’t even…
The auctioneer’s voice booms through the hall.
“Next up…” The crowd quiets with anticipation. “Nash McCoy!”
The reaction comes a beat slower this time.
A few cheers rise, scattered through the room, followed by polite applause as Nash climbs onto the stage, tipping his hat toward the crowd like he’s stepped into this moment a hundred times before.
Which, to be fair, he probably has.
And my heart drops straight through the floor.
“That’s bold,” someone mutters nearby.