My brain short-circuits. “Books?”
“From Bailey,” she says casually, shaping biscuit dough. “Said she thought I’d like the new collection for the community library drive. Sweet girl. Smart.”
“She’s—yeah. She is.”
Mom glances at me. “You gonna stand there grinning, or are you gonna grab the butter?”
I move on autopilot, reaching for the butter dish while trying not to picture Bailey standing in this kitchen, sunlight on her hair, her laughter echoing off the walls.
Mom hums. “She didn’t stay long. But she looked happy.”
“Happy’s good,” I say, too quickly.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, and I know that tone—the one that means she’s storing information for later use. I escape outside before she can weaponize it.
The morning’s sharp, the air smelling like dew and pecans and hay. Horses flick their tails lazily, and the world feels too still for the noise in my chest.
I’m elbow-deep in feed when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Morning, Wright.”
I freeze. Then turn.
Bailey stands there, holding a paper bag and wearing that same oversized sweater, jeans cuffed at the ankles, hair tucked behind her ears. She looks like autumn showed up just to compete.
“Didn’t know we offered delivery,” I say, trying for easy.
“Your mom forgot her receipt,” she says, holding it up. “And she bribed me with biscuits.”
“Classic.”
“She said to tell you to stop sulking and come eat.”
“I’m not sulking.”
She smirks. “You’re literally hiding in a barn.”
“Working, because it’s the best kind of therapy,” I correct. “It’s different.”
“Sure it is.”
She sets the paper bag on a hay bale and glances around. “This place is beautiful. Always has been.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching her instead of the view. “It is.”
She catches me looking, blushes, then crouches to pet the barn cat weaving around her ankles. “Hey there, handsome,” she says softly.
The cat purrs, traitorous bastard.
“You’re clearly his type,” I say.
“He’s clearly everyone’s,” she counters. “You could learn from him.”
I laugh. “I’m not licking anyone to say hello.”
“Your loss,” she says, straight-faced. It hits me right in the ribs—that mix of humor and heat she wields without trying.
We end up walking toward the house together, and it feels domestic in a way I didn’t realize I missed. So much better than her running in the opposite direction whenever she saw my face. The smell of biscuits pulls us into the kitchen, where Mom and Hadley are in the middle of some covert operation involving jam jars and chaos.
