As if on cue, the goat launches herself onto the couch between Taylen and me, her hooves narrowly missing the papers spread across the coffee table. She settles herself like royalty claiming a throne, butting her head against both of us in turn.
Taylen laughs at the rude awakening, his fingers finding that spot behind Gouta’s ears that makes her melt. “I’m still your favorite,” he mutters fondly. “But you were supposed to be teaching him about farming, not cuddling on his furniture.”
He yawns and rubs the sleep off his face. “Christ, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I promise the reports weren’t that boring.”
I laugh. “Sure, sure. Do you feel more rested though?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“We should head back,” I suggest, standing and offering him my hand. He hesitates for just a moment before taking it, his palm warm against mine as I help him up. The contact lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Kay’s already bouncing back toward the door, Gouta trotting after her like an oversized puppy. Our conversation still feels unfinished. There are questions I want to ask, but with Taylen, I need to take baby steps.
“Coming?” Kay calls from outside, her voice carrying on the crisp air.
Taylen follows me out into the snow, and we walk toward the warmth of the farmhouse, our shoulders nearly touching with each step.
10
TAYLEN
We’resilent as we make our way to the farmhouse, the only sounds coming from the snow crunching under our boots and Gouta’s happy trot beside Kay.
Each step takes me further away from Bastian’s studio and our easy conversation, probably the first we’ve ever had.
I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His profile is sharp against the winter light, all strong lines and silver-touched dark hair that makes my fingers itch with the urge to touch. His beard isn’t as well-groomed now as when he was showing up in TV interviews all the time or being followed around by the press.
Sebastian Hall, the dairy farmer, couldn’t be further from the spotlight.
Damn him for being good at this.
I’ve spent weeks convincing myself he’s just playing at being a farmer, that his real commitment is still to his music career because I’m too scared he’ll leave again when all I want is to get close.
But those plans in his studio aren’t the work of someone killing time between tours. They’re thorough, practical, andshow a deep understanding of the challenges facing small farms like ours.
The realization settles in my chest uncomfortably. I’ve been nursing my resentment like a familiar friend, using it as armor against the feelings I’ve carried since I was too young to know better. But standing in that studio, watching him explain his vision for collaborative farming initiatives with genuine passion lighting his eyes, that armor developed some serious cracks.
This is dangerous territory. When it comes to Bastian Hall, I’ve always had a weakness. Even when I was thirteen and he was just Jackson’s cool friend who played guitar and sang like an angel, there was something about him. Twenty years later, he’s become more attractive, more accomplished, and apparently more committed to staying in Vermont than I ever gave him credit for.
Holding on to how much I felt his absence after Jackson died was needed to protect my heart from falling for him. Who knew that a chat and a short nap were all it would take to make me change my tune?
The warmth of the farmhouse kitchen wraps around me with scents of sage and butter and the ghost of traditions I thought I’d lost forever. My parents called earlier to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. The conversation was short because they were getting ready to join their friends for a community dinner. A phone call is nice, but it will never be the same as having them here with me.
I don’t resent them and their choice to move to a warmer climate, but I miss them.
All conversation stops as we enter. Stone’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline while Nikko’s grin spreads slow and knowing across his face. My neck burns under their scrutiny, and I resist the urge to check if my shirt is buttoned properly or my hair is sticking up at odd angles from falling asleep on the couch.
“Sorry we’re late. Hope you didn’t wait on us,” I say, trying my best to keep a steady voice that doesn’t give away my thoughts. “Bastian was just showing me…um?—”
“I bumped into Taylen on my way to get wood for the fire, and it dawned on me that he hasn’t seen my new chickens,” he says.
I see Kay’s smile from the corner of my eye, but she doesn’t say anything. I knew I always liked that kid for a reason.
“Nonsense,” Sylvie reassures. “You’re both right on time. But Bastian is on cleanup duty.”
He laughs and walks toward the large table. I follow him, weaving between the counter and the already-seated guests.
“Hi, Henry,” I say to his dad as I pass him. “Good to see you.”
