Chapter Five — Tessa
Chapter Five
Tessa
By eight twelve the next morning, Rhett Callahan had called me sweetheart twice.
Both times in front of witnesses.
Both times because he was enjoying himself.
The first happened at the registration table when a mother wearing a LAKEVIEW HOCKEY MOM sweatshirt smiled at us and said, “You two are adorable.”
Before I could correct her, Rhett slipped one arm around the back of my chair.
Not around me.
Technically.
Just close enough to imply familiarity.
“Thank you,” he said. “She keeps me humble.”
I smiled so hard my jaw hurt.
“He gives me so many opportunities.”
The mother laughed.
Rhett looked delighted.
The second sweetheart came twenty minutes later when Dean Walsh asked whether we were ready to open the event.
“Absolutely,” Rhett said. “Sweetheart?”
I turned toward him slowly.
His expression was innocent.
No one who looked like Rhett Callahan had ever been innocent.
I lowered my voice.
“Call me that again and I will personally explain to Coach Mercer why you can no longer bend your fingers.”
His smile deepened.
“See? Humble.”
Dean Walsh laughed and walked toward the stage.
I stared at Rhett.
He looked unfairly good.
That was not relevant.
But it was true.
He had traded his usual sweatshirt for a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was still slightly damp, like he had showered in a hurry. A Lakeview hockey credential hung from a lanyard around his neck.
He looked responsible.
Professional.
Like the kind of man parents trusted and daughters regretted.
“You are enjoying this too much,” I said.
“We haven’t even started.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
Families filled the arena concourse around us. Student organizations had booths along both sides of the hallway. The hospitality suite smelled like coffee, cinnamon rolls, and the chili station Noah had somehow convinced three dining-services employees to build.
The event looked good.
Better than good.
It looked intentional.
Nobody could tell that forty-eight hours earlier, half the decorations had been floating in sprinkler water.
That should have calmed me.
Instead, I was standing beside Rhett while approximately two hundred people assumed he was my boyfriend.
“Your hand,” I said.
He looked down.
His fingers rested against the back of my chair.
“What about it?”
“Move it.”
“I’m not touching you.”
“You’re creating an implication.”
“That is the assignment.”
“The assignment is to avoid denying the rumor.”
“Right.”
“Not to perform it.”
He leaned closer.
“Natural rapport, remember?”
“I regret teaching you those words.”
“Dean Walsh taught me.”
“You remembered because they benefited you.”
“That’s how education works.”
I stood.
His arm dropped.
For one second, his hand brushed my waist.
Barely.
Accidental.
Probably.
Heat moved through me anyway.
I stepped aside too quickly.
His gaze flicked to mine.
He had noticed.
Of course he had.
Rhett noticed everything he pretended not to.
“Stage,” I said.
“Good plan.”
We walked toward the small platform near the arena entrance.
Paige stood below it with a clipboard.
She looked between us.
Then at me.
Then at Rhett.
“No.”
I frowned. “What?”
“You’re both being weird.”
“We’re working.”
“You’re walking like you’re afraid your elbows might touch.”
Rhett glanced at me.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Neither am I,” I said.
Paige raised one eyebrow.
“Convincing.”
She handed me the event schedule.
“Dean wants three minutes. Welcome families, thank the university, mention the showcase booths, direct everyone toward the rink tour.”
“Easy,” Rhett said.
Paige looked at him.
“You have a script.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You absolutely need one.”
“I’m excellent in front of crowds.”
“You once told a donor banquet that Coach Mercer’s motivational style was ‘emotionally minimalist.’”
“The donors laughed.”
“Coach didn’t.”
“He’s difficult to impress.”
Paige pushed the script into his chest.
“Read this.”
Rhett looked at the page.
Then at me.
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“You’re holding your clipboard like it insulted your family.”
“I’m prepared.”
“Prepared people can still be nervous.”
“I’m not.”
He leaned closer.
“Your left foot is tapping.”
I looked down.
It was.
I stopped.
He smiled.
Not teasing.
Soft.
That was worse.
“I hate public speaking,” I admitted.
His expression changed immediately.
“You coordinate campus events.”
“From the floor.”
“You boss hundreds of people around.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing now.”
“Standing onstage beside you was not part of the original plan.”
He pressed one hand to his chest.
“That sounded almost hurtful.”
“Almost?”
“I’m resilient.”
Dean Walsh stepped to the microphone and tapped it twice.
The speakers crackled.
My stomach tightened.
Rhett noticed.
He shifted closer.
This time, his shoulder touched mine.
Warm.
Solid.
“You want me to do most of it?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“You can.”
“I said no.”
“Okay.”
No argument.
No joke.
Just okay.
That steadied me more than it should have.
Dean Walsh introduced us.
Applause filled the concourse.
Rhett stepped onto the stage first, then turned and held out his hand.
I stared at it.
He lowered his voice.
“Natural rapport.”
“You’re impossible.”
“But useful.”
That was unfortunately true.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine.
He helped me up one step I absolutely did not need help climbing.
The crowd reacted.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
A collective, affectionate sound.
Like they had been waiting for proof.
My pulse stumbled.
Rhett did not let go immediately.
His thumb pressed once against my knuckles.
Reassurance.
Then he released me and moved to the microphone.
“Good morning, Lakeview families.”
His voice carried easily.
Of course it did.
He smiled at the crowd.
Not the full campus-charmer smile.
Something warmer.
Less practiced.
“Welcome to Family Weekend. We’re glad you’re here, and we’d especially like to thank everyone who helped relocate this event after a completely unforeseeable kitchen issue.”
I turned my head.
He avoided my gaze.
The crowd laughed.
I leaned toward the microphone.
“It was foreseeable.”
More laughter.
Rhett looked at me.
“There was some disagreement.”
“There was foil in a toaster.”
The laughter grew.
His mouth twitched.
“Details.”
The tension in my chest loosened.
That was what he did.
He made rooms feel easy.
Not by controlling them.
By convincing everyone they were already part of the joke.
I looked at the crowd.
Families.
Students.
Faculty.
People smiling back.
I could do this.
I welcomed them.
Thanked the volunteers.
Explained the showcase schedule.
My voice only shook once.
Rhett did not interrupt.
He did not take over.
He stood beside me and listened.
Actually listened.
When I lost my place on the page, he pointed gently to the next line without making it obvious.
When the microphone squealed, he leaned away and whispered, “The toaster’s revenge.”
I laughed.
Into the microphone.
The crowd laughed with me.
By the time we finished, I had forgotten to be nervous.
Applause filled the concourse again.
Rhett looked at me like I had done something remarkable.
I had spoken for ninety seconds.
Still.
The look landed somewhere deep.
We stepped offstage.
Dean Walsh met us at the bottom.
“That was perfect.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Exactly the kind of energy we needed.”
His gaze moved between us.
“Natural.”
Rhett smiled.
I did not look at him.
Dean lowered his voice.
“University communications would like a quick photo before you separate.”
I should have known.
There was always a photo.
A student photographer approached with a camera.
“Just stand together,” she said. “Maybe in front of the Lakeview banner.”
We moved into position.
Not close enough.
Apparently.
“A little tighter,” she said.
Rhett stepped toward me.
His shoulder brushed mine.
The photographer looked through the lens.
“Closer.”
“This is beginning to feel personal,” I muttered.
Rhett’s hand settled lightly at the center of my back.
Not my waist.
Not low.
Respectful.
Still intimate enough that every muscle in my body noticed.
“Relax,” he said beneath his breath.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re standing like the banner has a weapon.”
The photographer lowered the camera.
“Can you look at each other?”
No.
Absolutely not.
Rhett turned.
I followed because refusing would look stranger.
His face was closer than I expected.
Too close.
His eyes were darker in the arena light.
Not dark exactly.
Brown with flecks of gold.
I had never noticed the gold before.
That felt like an administrative failure.
“Smile,” he whispered.
“I am.”
“You look like you’re calculating my sentence.”
“I haven’t ruled it out.”
His thumb moved once against my back.
Small.
Barely there.
The photographer took three pictures in quick succession.
“Great,” she said. “One more.”
Rhett’s gaze stayed on mine.
The room around us softened.
Not disappeared.
I could still hear families talking.
Children running.
A coffee urn sputtering somewhere behind the registration table.
But I became acutely aware of his hand.
His breathing.
The fact that he was no longer smiling.
Neither was I.
The camera clicked.
The photographer lowered it.
“That one’s perfect.”
I stepped away.
Too quickly.
Rhett’s hand fell.
Paige appeared beside us.
She looked at the photographer’s preview screen.
Then made a sound.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing sound.”
She turned the screen toward me.
The picture looked—
Real.
That was the problem.
Rhett and I were not smiling at the camera.
We were looking at each other.
His hand rested at my back.
My body angled toward his.
There was something in my expression I did not recognize.
Something open.
Something curious.
Something that did not look fake.
Rhett leaned over my shoulder to see.
His chest brushed my arm.
He went quiet.