Her gaze roves over my face, looking for clues. “Christ on a cupcake!” She suddenly yells, her eyes like moons as she gapes at my neck. “Please tell me that’s what I think it is.”
I can’t help chuckling at the frantic way her nose ring is flashing at me. “Logan and I bonded last night.”
Instead of hugging me again, her gaze flicks to Cooper, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You might need to call for backup, big guy. You have your knife, but Loganisthe knife, if you know what I mean.”
“Hold up!” I splutter, grabbing her arm before she can march her beau into certain death. “Jesus, Kaysie. It’s not Logan. I spoke to Rosie, and she said some things…” The adrenaline finally drains out of me, and I slump against the porch post. “She took me by surprise, I guess.”
Kaysie makes a sound halfway between a hum and a growl, but it stops abruptly as Cooper puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “How about you take a walk down to the lake?”
Kaysie’s mouth softens for a moment, but then she gives him a dismissive wave, her attention firmly fixed on me. “I really want to get the official ghost tour, but maybe we can check out that gazebo first?”
I nod and lean into her arm as she leads me down to the dock and the pretty white gazebo that’s nestled on the bank. When we’re settled on the wooden bench, she brushes back my hair and studies my mating bite with cautious eyes. “Do you regret it, babe? Is that what’s going on?”
“No,” I hurry to reassure her. “Never. It’s been even more perfect than I ever hoped.”
She lets out an explosive breath. “Thank the stars. I really didn’t want to feed poor Mark to the Marine Machine.”
I snort out a laugh. “Something I want more details on, by the way…”
“But they can wait,” she interrupts me, then takes my hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “Now that I don’t have to drive you off a cliff…”
I gape at her. “Excuse me?”
“Thelma and Louise style,” she explains, unscrewing the top of the wine bottle and holding it out to me. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only way I’d be able to get you away from your obsessed mate.”
“Please stay away from cliff edges and convertibles,” I groan as I take a slug from the bottle, my toes curling at the rich, sweet flavor. I might know a lot about growing fruit, but Kaysie is a connoisseur at picking wines that taste way more expensive than their sticker price. I take another sip before handing it back to her and lean my head on her shoulder with a sigh. “I spoke to Rosie earlier and she said she’s thinking about selling the farm.”
The silence stretches between us, and when I glance up into Kaysie’s face, it’s surprisingly hard to read. “What? Why don’t you look surprised? Has she mentioned it to you before?”
She rubs her eyebrow and gives me an apologetic nod. “A few times.”
“Really?” I sit up straight, not sure why I feel so betrayed. “When? You mean recently? I know she wasn’t sure about putting me in charge, but I thought she’d give me a chance to make a go of it before selling the farm out from under me…”
“Whoa, whoa!” Kaysie thrusts the bottle back at me. “Take a drink, babe. You’re jumping to all the wrong conclusions. This isn’t about your farm management, okay?” She waits until I’ve settled back, then gives my thigh a squeeze. “Look, she’s always felt like the farm life was forced on you. And it’s kind of true, right? You went from being a future Olympian to a single mom version of Eliza Doolittle.”
“I was never going to the Olympics,” I snort, pressing the cold glass of the bottle to my overheated cheek. “And you know I love being Leo’s mom. I wouldn’t change that for anything.”
“Because you kick ass at it,” she tells me, and for a while we pass the bottle back and forth, soaking up the view. The sun has started to set, and the sky is the color of a soft bruise, warm oranges melting into tender pinks. A flock of blackbirds lift out of the trees in the distance, and I hold my breath as they ride the summer breezes.How do they make that look so effortless when I can’t seem to walk in a straight line most days?
“I know I joke about it,” Kaysie goes on, “but Rosie took it hard every time you snuck out of bed, trying to sing life back into half-dead flowers. You see the farm as an extension of her, and we all know you'd cut off your arm with pruning shears before you’d let her down.”
“You should probably stay away from the tool shed, as well,” I murmur, but I know she’s right. Disappointing Rosie just isn’t in the equation for me. “The farm is her family’s legacy, Kaysie. They built it up from nothing, and I don’t want to be the one who loses it for her.”
“Yeah, I get that, but businesses end, Lily. They're sold, or they fail. Some months I can barely break even, and I know it’s not my fault. Competition, the economy, the lure of shitty chain coffee… It’s not always something we can control.”
I turn to study her, because while she makes a lot of sense, I can’t bear the thought of giving up. Rosie never gave up on me, and I owe her at least that much loyalty. “But what if Icancontrol it?” I quickly tell her about Della’s offer, leaving out the details of the Chocolate Balloon Meltdown. “It’s crazy money, and it’s not like I can open the farm up to the public for a few days. Win-win, right?”
Kaysie wrinkles her nose. “Della sounds like a chocolate-coated dick.”
“Maybe, but he could also be a blessing in disguise.”
Kaysie makes an unimpressed sound. “Well, I’m happy for you if it takes some of the pressure off. But you should use the break from the farm to have a little fun. You know, there’s more to life than work, babe.” She sweeps my hair back over my shoulder and waggles her brows at me. “Now, tell me what it was like to be gnawed on by the hottest neighbor this side of Sawtooths?”
To my relief, Kaysie decides to stay for dinner, and while Ellis and Leo play a gentle game of catch on the lawn, Logan and Otley drag out a fancy grill and start working on the steaks. Tristan insists he’s happy pulling the sides together from the generous offerings of Lexington’s last delivery, but I’ve never been good at standing back while someone else is busy in the kitchen. I decide to make a couple of pies for dessert, while Kaysie snags another bottle from the cellar and parks herself on a stool. I’m not sure how many glasses I’ve had, but the recipe in my head seems to be evolving into something I’ve never seen in any cookbook.
“Not sure you should drink and bake, babe,” Kaysie says when my third attempt at braiding pastry goes askew. “I’m pretty sure I saw some cute chocolate pots in the walk-in cooler.”
“I want to make a cheery pie,” I argue, then have to pause to grip the edge of the counter because my head feels like it’s drifting off my shoulders. “I meancherry.”
