“I brought those crispy chicken wraps you like,” I say, following her. “But no ice cream. I could run back out, though.”
I should’ve thought of ice cream. She used to show up at my house with two pints—mint chocolate chip for me and cookie dough for her when I bombed a test or she was fighting with one of her sisters.
She waves me off with a flick of her hand. “I’ll survive. Two pints in one week is probably too much anyway.”
She digs through the bag and sets our food out on real plates. She licks her fingers when she’s done, and I stare, unable to look away as the tip of her thumb slowly enters her mouth.
“So what’s the surprise?” she asks, lifting her eyebrow when she catches me staring.
“A song!”
“Another one already?”
I nod enthusiastically. “The one I couldn’t get out of my head after Saturday night. I finished it yesterday and sent a video to my team. Andre is beside himself and already asking when I can get back to record it. I can’t believe the last song for the entire album is already written.”
That gets her attention. She straightens. “Wait—the last one?”
Honestly, it’s shocking to me too. If you don’t count the eighteen months I wrote nothing, this will be the fastest I’ve ever put together an entire album. Andre is texting me constantly with marketing opportunities and recording dates. My management team and the label are thrilled, though they were decidedly unhappy when I told them I need to stay in Wild Bluffs until after the sale.
“The album’s done. Every track. And the one I wrote Saturday night…” I whistle and give her a little finger drumroll on the table. “It’s a single. I know it.”
Her eyes crinkle into a smile, but it doesn’t quite look right. “That’s amazing.”
She says it like she means it, but something’s off. She’s distracted. Distant. Like when you drive someone else’s car and the seat is just a little too far away—you can still drive, but it feels wrong.
I slide her food to the spot next to mine. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
She gives a soft, noncommittal sound and joins me.
We eat side by side at her kitchen island, the air thick with a silence that doesn’t quite qualify as comfortable. Izzy stares at her plate like she’s worried her wrap will run away. I take a bite and force a smile.
“This is exactly how I imagined it going,” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Album done. Me, taking time out of my delivery route to eat with the most beautiful woman I know. You, radiating support and admiration.”
She huffs a breath—half laugh, half sigh—but it doesn’t quite make it to her eyes.
“Remember when you used to eat these wraps every Friday and claim it was part of your ‘wellness routine’?”
Her lips twitch, just barely. “It was spiritual. A sacred ritual.”
I grin, encouraged, and put on my best impression of her sixteen-year-old self. “‘Chicken wraps are self-care, Jaxon. It’s not emotional eating if it comes with lettuce.’”
That earns me a glare, but not the full laugh I’m chasing.
She nods slowly, then murmurs, “I’m happy for you. Finishing the album. That’s huge.”
For a second, I think maybe she means it. But the spark dies behind her expression before I can answer. And just like that, we’re back to silence.
This should be the part where we celebrate—entwined on the couch, experimenting in the bedroom, kissing like we’ve got all the time in the world.
Instead, I watch her, chewing slowly, waiting for the moment when it feels right to say what I’ve been turning over since Friday.
The moment doesn’t come. Especially when Izzy says, “I haven’t heard from that client in Nashville.”
I stop mid-chew. “Still?”
She nods, taking an angry bite out of her wrap. “Nothing. I followed up last Friday. Crickets. It’s been over a week since the pitch, and I’m starting to think I blew it.”
“You didn’t blow it.”
