“No? Cup of tea?”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I have to. I’m English, you see, tea-making is a primal need. You can’t take it from me.” She heads over to the kitchen.
I clear my throat. “I should finish my checks.”
Summer goes still. “What?” she says quietly.
“The trees…I already braced them, but I’ve been distracted today. I might have missed something.” I can’t miss anything. If I do, animals will die. And it’ll be my fault.
Summer bites her lip. “Didn’t you already do that?” she asks carefully. “Multiple times?”
“Aye, but?—”
“Alec, you’re scaring me,” she says bluntly. “You can’t go out again in that storm. You know you can’t. I get that you’re afraid, but?—”
“I’m not afraid.”
She gives me a small smile. “You’re terrified. It’s okay. But the thought of you getting hurt is terrifying tome.” She joins me and takes my hands between hers, running her thumbs over thescarred skin on my palms. “Stay? Please?” She tries to draw me to the sofa.
I close my eyes. It would be so easy to give in to her. To cuddle up with her and pretend that nothing bad can happen tonight. Temptation tugs at me.
“Stay,” she begs, and something inside me breaks. “Stay inside with me, Alec.”
For the first time since I inherited the farm, I give in. “Okay,” I hear my voice say. “I’ll stay.”
Her relief is palpable. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me softly, just a gentle graze of lips. I pull her closer at the waist, so we’re touching head to foot. We breathe together.
Then her phone rings in the kitchen, and I feel her stiffen. She tries to school her expression, but I grasp her chin, examining her face.
“Something’s wrong,” I realise. “Summer. What’s happened?”
SIXTY-ONE
ALEC
Summer’s eyes widen. “Nothing!” She sparkles at me.
She’s lying. She only does that smile when she’s pretending to be happy. “Is it bad news?” I take her hand. “Tell me.”
“No! No, not bad news.”
“Is it another article?” She doesn’t answer. “Tell me, Summer.”
“It’s not bad news. The opposite, actually.” She gives me a dazzling smile. “I’m officially uncancelled.”
“What?”
“Lulu flipped the narrative. Now everyone thinks me having a meltdown was iconic instead of pathetic. There’s a hashtag trending.” Her throat bobs. “S-sad girl glam.”
“Sad girl glam?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Crying in designer clothes is now in, apparently. My follower count has shot up as well. Lulu called. She’s setting up a party to celebrate.”
“A party?”
“Yep.” She fidgets again. “On Saturday. Apparently, that’s when I’m set to hit five million.”
