"Ivy wants to ask her about her music. She's been playing Stevie Wilson albums all week."
"Let her. Steph needs to remember there were good parts of that life, too."
By the time Stephy came in, Ivy had efficiently set the table with plates I forgot I owned. The brisket sat in the center, surrounded by cornbread, coleslaw, and what looked like pecan pie.
"This is too much," Stephy said softly, standing in the doorway like she wasn't sure she was allowed in.
"This is normal for Wyatt," Ivy said, pulling out her own chair. "You should see what happens when he actually tries. Sit. Eat. He'll be offended if we don't finish at least half."
Stephy sat carefully, still moving like her ribs hurt, though the bruises had faded to almost nothing. The physical healing was happening faster than the emotional, but that was expected.
"So," Ivy said, cutting straight to the point in that way she had, "Liam says you write your own music. All of it?"
"Most of it." Stephy seemed surprised by the direct question. "Or I used to. The label's been bringing in other writers lately."
"That must be frustrating," I said, giving Wyatt a pointed look.
"Kinda like someone telling you how to breed your own cattle,” Ivy added, smirking at her boyfriend. Teasing him about the fit he threw over Ivy bossing him around never got old.
Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. "Darlin’, you didn’ttellme. Youlecturedme. There were charts involved." He tipped his hat, smirking. "Hell of a way to flirt, by the way."
Stephy actually laughed at that. "That's... actually exactly what it's like."
"I run breeding programs for three counties," Ivy explained. "Used to have old ranchers telling me what to do every damn day until the results started speaking for themselves. Now they shut up and listen. Maybe you need to get back to doing things your way."
"Maybe," Stephy said thoughtfully.
The conversation shifted to easier things. Wyatt talked about the ranch. Ivy discussed bloodlines with the same passion most people talked about sports. She and Stephy clicked fast—different stories, same backbone. One of those quiet, instant understandings women just have with one another.
"Louisa wants you at Sunday dinner," Ivy said as they prepared to leave. "Fair warning—it's chaos. Everyone talks at once, there's usually at least one argument, and Clay will definitely steal food off your plate."
"Sounds nice," Stephy said wistfully.
"It's loud," Ivy said bluntly. "But it's real. None of that fake politeness bullshit. If they like you, you'll know. If they don't, you'll know that too."
"They'll like her," I said.
Ivy studied Stephy for a moment. "Yeah, they will. You don't put on airs. That counts for a lot around here."
After they left, Stephy helped me clean up, moving around my kitchen like she belonged there.
"I like her," she said, drying dishes. "She's very..."
"Direct?"
"Real. No agenda, no hidden meanings. Just says what she thinks." She paused. "I haven't had much of that lately."
"That's Ivy. Spent too long dealing with other people's expectations. Now she just doesn't bother."
"I want to be like that. When I figure out who I am again.”
“You will, sweetheart,” I assured her.
Her throat moved with a rough swallow, and she set the dishrag down. “How can you be so sure?” she whispered, not meeting my eyes.
I crossed the kitchen and stopped just close enough that I could smell her shampoo. It was flowery and sweet—intoxicating. And before I could stop it, my hand moved to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear.
She looked up at me slowly, blue eyes soft as my fingers slid along her jaw to stop at her chin. She let me tilt her head back. Just enough that the warm glow from the porch light outside highlighted the soft angle of her cheek, the curve of her mouth.
