A figure near the bookstore catches my eye. Tall, lean, with a distinctive black leather jacket. My heart jumps before my brain catches up.
“Did you see—” I start, but when I look again, the sidewalk is empty.
“See what?” Nikko asks.
“Nothing. It was probably my imagination.” Because there’s no way Fox would be in Winterberry without telling us. Where would he even stay, if not at the farmhouse?
I pull up at Joe’s and push Fox’s non-sighting from my mind.
When we get inside, Joe greets us with his familiar wave.
“Pick a booth,” he calls out, already reaching for glasses. “I’ll bring over some wings and your usuals.”
“Make mine nonalcoholic,” I add. “I’m driving.”
We slide into our usual corner booth, the vinyl seats creaking in welcome. Stone immediately pulls out his phone, grimacing at whatever he sees on the screen. “Daisy’s at it again,” he says, and I already dread what our agent is up to now. “Three emails just today about studio time. The woman doesn’t understand the concept of a break.”
Nikko leans over to peek at the screen. “What’s she pushing for now?”
“A studio album.” Stone scrolls through the messages. “Apparently, we ‘don’t want to get forgotten.’” His air quotes drip with sarcasm.
Joe arrives with our drinks and a massive plate of wings.
“We’re not deciding anything without everyone here,” I say firmly, reaching for a wing. “That includes Fox and Mik.”
Stone sets his phone face-down on the table. “Agreed. But Daisy won’t wait forever.”
“She’ll wait,” Nikko says with unexpected firmness.
The certainty in his voice surprises me, but he’s right. We’ve earned the right to take this break, to figure out what comes next on our own terms. If only we could figure out what those terms are.
“The farm comes first right now,” I admit, the words feeling right on my tongue. “Dad needs help with the transition, even if he won’t admit it.”
Stone nods understanding, but Nikko’s look reminds me that this wasn’t his choice.
“Anyway, what about Winterberry’s holiday events?” Stone asks, clearly trying to change the subject. “This is my favorite season here. I don’t want to miss the markets.”
“You’ll have to talk to Finn about that,” I say, grateful for the shift in topic. “He’s got his finger on every pulse in town. Pretty sure he knows what color underwear the mayor’s wearing on any given day.”
Stone’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “Is he still running the winter festival? Because last year’s mulled wine was incredible.”
“Still running everything,” I confirm.
“Can’t wait for Thanksgiving,” Stone says. “I’ve upped my workouts and been living on air to prepare for your mom’s food.” But then he picks up a chicken wing and sucks on it until he pulls out just the bone from his mouth.
“Course you have.” I laugh. “Don’t worry. Mom’s making enough food for twenty people.”
Nikko perks up. “The sage stuffing?”
“And Dad’s smoked turkey,” I add, watching them both light up like kids. “He’s already prepping the wood chips.”
“God, I’ve missed real holidays,” Stone sighs. “LA Thanksgiving is all about who can serve the most pretentious organic free-range whatever. Give me Sylvie’s cooking any day.”
The warmth of their enthusiasm feels good. This is what we needed, a chance to remember who we are beyond the music, beyond the fame. A chance to just be us again.
The door to the bar swings open, letting in a burst of cold air and Taylen Howard. He pauses when he sees me, his expression freezing like the winter wind outside, before deliberately turning toward the bar.
He hands Joe some paperwork. Their conversation is too low to hear over the bar’s usual noise. A moment later, Taylen disappears back outside, returning with a box full of glass jars, probably the apple butter or the chutney Mom raves about so much. Joe takes the box toward the kitchen with an approving nod, and a moment later, Joe’s wife and bar chef, Barbara, comes out and gives Taylen a hug.
