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“Yes.”

Her gaze stayed on me.

I took the cup, set it on the nearest table without drinking, and held out my hand.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The barn.”

“You just came from the barn.”

“Different part.”

“Cash.”

“Priya.”

Her eyes searched mine. Whatever she saw made her stop asking.

She put her hand in mine.

I led her away from the dance floor, away from the band and the lights and the people who’d needed things from us all day. I didn’t take her through the horse-barn aisle. That belonged to Boone and Josie now.

I took her around the back, to the ladder built against the hayloft wall.

She looked up.

Then at me.

“You have got to be kidding.”

“You scared of heights?”

“No.”

“Ladders?”

“No.”

“Hay?”

“I’m allergic to men improvising.”

“Bad night for you, then.”

I went up first.

At the top, I reached down.

She put her hand in mine.

And climbed.

***

The hayloft smelled like summer stored for winter—dry grass, old pine, warm dust, and the faint leather scent drifting up from the tack room below.