"He offered me a solo show."
Eva straightened. "Your own cooking show?"
"Twelve episodes. Option for more."
Eva shook her head immediately. "Don’t even consider it. Stay here. Work your truck, your socials, date the hot farmer."
Roz was uncharacteristically quiet. Her face was pensive on the phone screen.
"Roz?"
Roz exhaled slowly. "It’s a solo show?"
"Yes."
"And you’re the lead?"
"That's what he said."
Another pause. "I think you should consider it."
Eva turned on her. "What?"
"It’s not a competition,” Roz said. "It’s her voice. Her food. Her brand. Her work."
"She would have to leave," Eva said.
"For a few weeks," Roz countered. "Filming isn’t forever. She could go back and forth. People do that."
"Or she could stay and build something real here," Eva shot back. "This could be your reality. No competition necessary."
Ivy stood between her cousin and the phone. Her hands rested on the counter, batter half-mixed, heart doing uneven flips in her chest.
She could feel both arguments. Could see both futures. The one that made sense. The one that felt right.
She hadn't wanted to admit to herself that she was thinking about Devon's offer. Roz just said the quiet part out loud. What if Ivy could have both? What if she could have her own show and Finn? The best of both worlds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was that kind of afternoon on the Purple Heart Ranch; the kind that made it hard to remember the world had edges. The light came in low and golden across the wide fields, making the grass look as if it had been lit from underneath. The mountains in the distance appeared purple at the base and amber at the ridge. The sky above them couldn't decide between blue and gold, so it did both.
The fields ran wide to the east, broken up by the working paddocks and the kitchen gardens and the long fence lines that the ranch hands kept in the kind of repair that said people here took pride in the small things. Two horses moved along the far fence. A third stood alone near the water trough with the philosophical stillness of an animal that had found peace. Much like the soldiers who cared for them daily.
A pair of dogs came around the corner of the equipment barn at speed — a shepherd mix and something smaller and indeterminate that was working twice as hard to keep up. They crossed the yard without stopping, pursuing something, and disappeared around the other side of the barn.
Finn looked at the soccer ball sitting in the grass where it had landed. That was when he saw Fran DeMonti standing at theedge of the field. He was thirty-four years old and had temples that had started going gray two years ago. The gray wasn't from age; rather, it came with a diagnosis and a medication schedule and the reckoning of a man who had been told his heart had been working harder than hearts were supposed to work and had decided to keep going, anyway. And there he stood, still going… and going gray.
Across the field, Carlos Lopez trapped a soccer ball with a series of complicated footwork while Fran looked on with a feigned bored expression. The bored expression turned into a scowl when the ball sailed past Fran.
"I'm the one playing goalie," called Carlos. "You're not supposed to dodge."
"That went left field," called Fran as he went after the ball.
"Left field? You're thinking of baseball, old man."
The ball rolled to a stop in front of Finn. Fran had a grin on his face as he bent to pick up the ball.
From the other end of the field, young Carlos groaned. "You're not supposed to touch the ball with your hands. That's why it's called futbol."
