“I think it’s safe to say you got it,” Bowen said. “We can practice some more tomorrow. Ready to run?”
She tucked her blond hair behind her ears. “Definitely.”
We watched as they took off. Within the first fifteen feet, Bowen adjusted his stride to match hers and they could’ve won the Olympic medal in synchronized running.
Cash groaned. “That is not good.”
“We say nothing,” I hissed. “Her DNA recognition system is just confused. They’re brothers. They look alike. A little.” My hands went to my cheeks. “At least in the jawline.”
“Eye shape? Kind of.” Cash scratched the back of his neck. “Noses are different though. And their foreheads.”
“Hair could not be less similar.” I moaned. Griff’s was a thick, stick-straight red, and Bowen’s a soft, wavy, almost-black. But then I snapped my fingers. “Their mouths are the same. Same lips!” I yipped.
“She’ll work through it,” Cash said, but it was tinged with worry.
I couldn’t blame Maggie. No shade to Griffin, but he still had the build of a human coat rack, while Bowen looked like he’d casually discovered weightlifting. Defined but not ‘I live off boiled chicken’ levels of swole. Just like Cash. Plus, Bowen had that broody, emotionally unavailable vibe girls eat up—like a fixer-upper boyfriend just waiting for the right woman to repair his storm-tossed soul.
Cash turned back to me. “We’re gonna shake that off. All right, partner. You ready to do this?”
I nodded. But then I shook my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
He didn’t respond, just cracked his thumb knuckle and stared at me—looking a tad helpless and like he was restraining himself. He probably wanted to be the third Dupree male of the day to use the ‘hands-on’ spear-throw teaching method. I kind of wanted him to. But I was the one who’d imposed the ‘no touching’ rule.
For a second, I thought about lifting it momentarily. But then I chucked the idea aside. Because if Cash put his hands on me, my reaction would be more of a dead giveaway than Maggie’s.
I stared at him, hugging myself.
Cash’s fingers locked together behind his neck—hopefully for safekeeping. “Let’s walk through the steps again.”
thirteen
Cash
Iran the brush down Maisy’s side—Granny’s paint horse. The dust lifted into the late afternoon light. I was exhausted from a day of recording, but Charlie looked even more worn out. Even now, as she came behind me, making slow circles over Maisy’s shoulders, her lids were half closed.
For two days, I’d been working up the courage to ask her something. It was actually the brainchild of Bennett Reed, the man directing my music video. He’d stopped by the house one evening to discuss logistics with me and Dad. After meeting Charlie and casually observing us together, he’d pulled me aside and put an idea in my head.
Moving down the horse’s hind leg, I kept my grip steady. “You’ve got it easy, Maisy. Stand in the fields all day, eat grass, flirt with the stallions.”
“Ha.” Charlie muttered around a laugh. “Maisy’s flirting days are long over. She’s geriatric now. Can hardly stay awake most of the time. Huh, girl?”
Charlie gave her a pat. Maisy was ancient. I didn’t even want to think about how old. Or that Anna, Seddledowne’s only vet, might have to make a house call that had nothing to do with checkups. My tough-as-nails grandpa had walked around lost, tears in his eyes, for two days when his quarter horse Fred had to be put down. Granny would be even worse when Maisy went.
“So…” I said as I reached the horse’s flank. “We’re filming a music video for ‘Hard to Love You.’”
Charlie glanced over at me. “Really? That’s so cool. Is it like…a video that tells a story, or are you just singing the song?”
“It tells a story. It’ll be scenes from the song. Chasing fireflies, kicking water at each other in a stream, playing guitar together, fishing on the lake, a midnight McDonald’s run for chicken nuggets.”
She had the lyrics memorized. I’d seen her singing along just yesterday, as we rerecorded some rough spots for the album. Clearly, it was about her. About us. Pretty much all of my songs that had anything to do with love were. There was no way she hadn’t figured that out. But if she had, she didn’t let on.
“Are you playing yourself or…” She grabbed the fly spray from the tote and started spraying it over Maisy’s neck.
“I’m playing myself.” I scratched my temple. “And we’ll hire someone to play my love interest.”
She stared at Maisy, her expression blank, as if I had just told her I was getting a gallon of milk from the store. “Hope she likes nuggs, whoever she is.” She gave the horse another spritz.
“Yeah.” I chuckled. “That’s non-negotiable. She needs to be a chicken nugget connoisseur.” My voice dripped with insinuation. Charlie used to say she’d have Chick-fil-A cater her wedding. But she kept her eyes on Maisy and her expression neutral. All right. There was no more time for messing around. Bennett needed an answer yesterday. “So… I was kind of hoping… you’d do it?” It was embarrassing how high-pitched I sounded. I cleared my throat. “Play my love interest, I mean.”
