The thought sobers me. That version of myself doesn’t live in Stillwater Bay. She doesn’t belong in Nash’s quiet house, or his arms, or his every day. She lives in studios and on stages and in motion. In Los Angeles.
I stop dancing. My gaze finds itself in the mirror again.
My reflection stares back, posture collapsed, brows drawn tight, a question in her eyes I don’t want to answer.
To distract myself, I finally check the message.
Trish
So, I know we didn’t exactly part on great terms, but this tour is killing me. I thought I could do it but I can’t. I’m going to step down. You’ll probably get a call. Also… sorry I was awful. Hope you’re doing okay
I blink. My breath catches. Joy and fear join hands and stampede through my veins.
And then Nash’s voice rings out down the hall,startling me. “I’m out! I’ll text you when I know more, but you’re probably on your own for dinner.”
I pocket my phone and with it, the message I don’t know how to feel about yet. “No worries. I might see if Stella and the Gabster want to hang out.”
He pops his head around the corner. “Have fun with your friends,” he says, his voice low and warm, gaze locking on mine. “But save the best part of your night for when I get back.”
With a wry grin that liquifies my insides, he turns and strides down the hallway, leaving me awash in wanting… for him, here, in Stillwater…
…andfor the life Trish just dangled in front of me.
The bells over the door at Holiday’s jingle as I step inside, sunshine spilling in behind me. The air smells like cinnamon and fresh-brewed coffee, and for a moment, it almost feels like the world hasn’t tilted sideways. Stella and Gabby are already at our booth in the corner, the one we’ve claimed since high school. Heads bent together, they’re staring at something on Gabby’s phone, whispering like we’re sixteen again.
Violet spots me from behind the counter and lights up. “No crutches? No boot? Driving yourself?” Her hands go to her hips like a proud aunt. “Look at you coming back to life.”
“It feels good,” I say honestly, voice catching just slightly on the last word.
Because I don’t know which life I’m coming back to. The one I’ve spent years building, driving a wedge between me and my parents in the process? Or this one, unexpected and calm and terrifyingly tethered to a man I never saw coming? I place my order, thank Simon for the coffee and carry the steaming mug over to the booth.
“You have got to see this,” Stella says the moment I slide onto the bench beside her. Her eyes are wide, and Gabby looks mildly terrorized.
Gabby groans. “I don’t even know what to think.” She pulls out an earbud and offers it to me. “Here. Just listen.”
I slide the bud in and take the phone she pushes across the table. Grayson Kincaid’s voice flows through me before I’m ready—rich, aching, unmistakably him. Just a guitar, a mic, and the kind of raw honesty that makes your chest hurt.
Sweet angel
Hair touched with gold
Memories of days gone by
My love for you, never grown cold
Your voice, your touch, your sun-bright smile
When God made you, he broke the mold
The lyrics scroll across the screen, slow and deliberate.
My first, my last, my always…
I pull the earbud out, brow furrowing. “Yeah… about that…”
“What am I supposed to do?” Gabby asks, clearly rattled. “What can I do?”
“Stop listening and stop caring,” Stella mutters, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Anything else would be emotional suicide.”
