We took the path toward the lower pasture where Jake had set up the penning lanes. The sun was high and white and the air was still. I could hear the cattle before I saw them, the low bass notes of animals who had mixed feelings about being rearranged, and the sharp whistle of Jake directing from the fence. Layla raised her camera and started working, and I leaned on the fence rail, content to be an audience of one for the best show on the property.
A guest in brand-new boots and a hat that still had the price sticker on it attempted to cut a calf from the group. The calf was unimpressed. It feinted left, juked right, and shot between the man’s legs with the casual athleticism of an animal that had been outsmarting humans since birth. The guest sat down hard in the dirt and his hat fell off and Layla got the whole sequence in a burst of frames. She was laughing behind her camera, andthe sound of it carried across the pasture and made me want to stand here for the rest of the day.
She shot as she sang, with an instinct she didn’t fully trust and a talent she couldn’t see. Her body moved with the action, tracking a guest’s run along the fence, pivoting to catch another calf’s escape at the corner, dropping low for an angle that put the wide blue sky behind the whole scene. The confidence that showed up behind her lens was showing up in her guitar playing now too, and I liked both versions equally and for very different reasons.
She lowered the camera and caught my eye. “You’re supposed to be looking at the cows.”
“The cows are fine. The photographer’s more interesting.”
Her blush started at her collarbones, which I was learning was where it always started. She turned the camera on me and snapped a shot before I could adjust my hat.
“Now we’re even,” she said.
We headed back to the Lodge together, and her fingers found mine on the path, threading through easily. The physical ease of it caught me off guard. I’d held plenty of hands. I’d posed for photos with women on my arm at industry events, walked red carpets, the whole routine. None of it had felt like this, a quiet statement made in daylight, witnessed by nobody important except the two of us.
A white BMW convertible was parked at the Lodge entrance.
I didn’t recognize the car. I recognized the license plate holder, a Nashville custom shop that did exactly one type of client, and my grip tightened on Layla’s fingers before I let go.
“Whose car is that?” Layla asked.
I didn’t answer, because the Lodge door opened and Crystal Harmon walked out onto the porch in a red sundress and four-inch heels and a smile that could sell real estate on the surface of the sun.
“Wade!” She spread her arms as if she’d been waiting for me specifically, which she had, because Crystal never did anything without an audience and I’d just become hers. “Oh my God, it’s been forever.”
It had been four months. She looked exactly the way she always looked: blonde, thin, spray-tanned to a shade no Texas sun had ever produced, the lash extensions fanning out like awnings over her contoured cheekbones. The veneers caught the light when she smiled. Her breasts sat high and motionless in a way that defied both gravity and the laws of casual sundress-wearing. Her sundress was the kind of red that demanded attention, which was the only kind of red Crystal owned. She had two platinum singles, a tour bus with her name on it, and a verified following in the millions. Six months I’d spent with this woman, and she could name my streaming numbers and my label’s marketing strategy but had never once asked me what songs I listened to when nobody was around.
“Crystal.” I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. Layla had gone still beside me. She knew exactly who Crystal Harmon was — anyone who’d followed my career for five minutes did — and the color was leaving her face. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard about Kirby.” She came down the steps with the smooth confidence of fourteen years in pageant heels. “Sprained wrist, poor baby. I said to myself, Crystal, you are between tour dates, the least you can do is drive down and help out.” She placed her hand over her heart. “So I called up my agent, who called up Carl and Lucinda, and now here I am. Free of charge. You know I’d do anything for the band.”
She hugged me before I could create enough distance to prevent it. Her perfume hit first, heavy, sweet, expensive, and her arms went around my neck with confident ownership. I stepped back as soon as the embrace allowed without making a scene.
Crystal’s gaze shifted to Layla. The assessment took less than a second, a flick of her eyes from Layla’s scarf to her boots, a micro-expression that a stranger would have missed entirely and that I recognized from six months of dating her and two years of watching her work rooms before that. She smiled showing teeth.
“And you must be the photographer. Lucinda mentioned you’ve been sitting in with the band. That is so sweet.” She extended her hand. “Crystal Harmon.”
“Layla.” Layla shook her hand. Her voice was steady, her expression friendly, but the openness from five minutes ago had pulled back behind something careful and polite. Her gaze flicked to Crystal’s cinched waist, her salon-blown hair, her heels, and then away — fast, like she’d touched something hot.
“We don’t need another singer,” I said. Flat, clear, not inviting discussion.
“Oh, honey, I’m not here to step on toes.” Crystal waved a manicured hand. “I just figured an extra voice never hurts, especially with the Pavilion show Saturday. That’s a big stage.” She glanced at Layla and her smile sharpened to a point so fine only someone who knew her would catch it. “But if y’all have it handled, I’ll just enjoy the ranch. I could use a vacation.”
She swept back inside. The Lodge door closed behind her and the porch was quiet. A horsefly buzzed past. In the lower pasture, Jake whistled sharply at a cow.
I’d spent three years in Nashville and met exactly four hundred versions of Crystal Harmon. She was the only one who’d made it past three dates, which said more about my judgment than hers.
“So,” Layla said, carefully. “Your ex-girlfriend.”
“My ex-girlfriend.” I looked at her. “That was not planned. By me.”
“She seems... enthusiastic.”
“Crystal is a lot of things. I promise you, not one of them is a problem.” I reached for her hand and she let me take it. Her fingers were cooler than before. “Hey. Look at me.”
She looked at me. The easy warmth from the pasture was gone.
“Friday’s show,” I said. “You and me. That’s what matters this week. Not her.”
