I sink onto the couch, trying not to think about who else might have sat here, what might have happened on these cushions. “Barely,” I mutter, scratching Gouta’s ears as she settles at my feet. “So why exactly didn’t I crash at your place last night?” I keep my voice casual, but I know I’m not sober enough to get away with it.
Finn’s pause lasts a beat too long. “Work stuff.”
“At midnight?” I press, remembering fragments of last night—Finn checking his phone repeatedly, wearing the concerned look he gets when he’s trying to manage too many situations at once.
“Um…” he starts, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s uncomfortable. “I’m having some work done, and the place is a mess. Last thing I needed was you stepping on a rusty nail in the middle of the night and getting some…um…rusty infection.”
I pretend that I believe him because my head hurts too much. “You could have just said that,” I mutter. “Instead of pawning me off on your brother.”
“First of all, you weren’t pawned off. Bastian offered. And second”—his voice softens slightly—“maybe it wasn’t the worst thing to have someone looking out for you last night. You were in pretty rough shape, Tay.”
I grunt noncommittally, refusing to examine too closely why I was drinking so heavily in the first place. “I don’t even remember seeing him at the bar.”
“He came in late. You were…enthusiastically explaining your theories about sustainable farming to anyone who’d listen.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Please tell me I didn’t try to lecture Bastian about farming.”
Finn’s laugh does nothing to ease my embarrassment. “No, but you did tell Old Jim that his fence-line theories were, and I quote, ‘more outdated than your flannel collection.’”
“Christ.” I press my free hand against my eyes. “I’m never drinking again.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Finn reminds me, then his tone turns serious. “Look, I’ve got to run. You going to be okay?”
“Yeah.” I sigh, standing as Gouta protests the loss of her pillow. “Thanks for…you know.”
“That’s what friends are for. Even if sometimes being a friend means calling in backup.”
We end the call, and I pocket my phone, taking one last look around the cabin.
Outside, the air is crisp enough to soften the remaining edges of my hangover.
There are no signs of Bastian, so I allow my curiosity to take me toward the recording studio. The building is a modern structure with large windows. It looks out of place next to the rustic cabin.
The windows are clear enough to see inside. A guitar rests on the couch, papers scattered across a desk, coffee cups on every available surface. Signs of recent and regular use that make my jaw clench. So much for coming back to be a full-time farmer.
“All for show,” I mutter, turning away from the evidence of Bastian’s real priorities. “Just like everything else.”
Movement near the barn catches my attention. Bastian’s tall frame is easy to spot, his shoulders set in that familiar line as he works. The cows are out in the pasture, which means he’s probably doing the morning cleaning.
He straightens as I approach, wiping his hands on his jeans. Those gray eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I forget what I came here to say, distracted by the way the morning light catches the growing silver in his hair.
“Thanks,” I force out, my voice colder than the air between us. “For last night.”
His eyebrows draw together slightly. “You already said that.”
“Did I? Must have been too drunk to remember.” The words come out sharp, pointed. “Kind of like how I must be too drunk to notice you’re not exactly sticking to the whole ‘full-time farmer’ story.”
“What’s your problem?” He turns to face me fully, his height advantage more noticeable now that we’re close.
“People who lie.” I gesture toward the studio. “Especially people who claim they’re here to stay while keeping their escape route well-maintained.”
Something flashes in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I step close enough to smell his hay-and-leather scent. My neck hurts from looking up to meet his eyes. “I must have mistaken farm invoices and paperwork in your studio for music sheets. My bad.”
His jaw tightens, and I see his hands clench at his sides. Good. Let him feel a fraction of the anger I’ve been carrying.
“You don’t get to judge my choices,” he says, voice low and controlled. “You don’t know anything about why I’m here or what I’m doing.”
