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I scowl.

Taya is drunk?

Well, Kaz told me the women were at Mav’s, which is why everyone was playing poker at the B&B. I got no problem with her having a good time—but if she’s been drinking because of me, well, that twists my guts some.

“My pregnant wife is stone cold sober. Aria is asleep on the couch, Mav, and Joy is dancing,” Duke continues. “And, ah, Kaz, Bree is stayin’ the night at Mav’s.”

“She needs to go home so I can fuckin’ talk to her without an audience,” Kaz thunders. “Fuck it! I’m going home.”

Hunt gets up. “Me, too.”

Kincaid Farms is still lit up when we pull in—Mav, Cade, and me in our respective trucks.

Music is coming from inside. Joy’s truck is in the drive. No Wrangler.

Elena meets us on the porch.

“She’s in the living room,” she tells me as she walks into her husband’s embrace. “She doesn’t know I called you.”

“Okay.”

“Mason.” She puts a hand on my arm. “She’s hurt. She’s not performing it. She’s actually hurt.” Her gaze holds mine. “Be careful with her.”

“I will. Thanks, Elena.”

“I know you know. I’m saying it anyway.”

The living room of Kincaid’s home looks exactly like it should when there’s been a bunch of women throwing back. There are empty wine glasses, a blanket pulled from the back of the couch, magazines scattered around.

Aria is asleep on a couch, her head on Joy’s lap, who still has a half-filled glass of wine in her hand, and she’s singing along with Celine Dion about love going on.

Bree is by the bookcase, looking through books. She scans for Kaz, and when she doesn’t find him with us, she’s a little disappointed, though I doubt she’d admit it.

Taya is in an armchair.

She’s not fully asleep—her eyes are closed, but she shifts when I come in. She’s barefoot in a pair of linen pants and a shirt. Her dark hair is loose. Her flats are on the floor by the chair.

She looks—undone in a way she never allows herself to be in daylight, with anyone watching. Except with me—when she didn’t know about my lies.

I crouch beside her. “Taya.”

She opens her eyes. It takes a moment for them to find me, and then they do—a flicker of complicated emotions moves through her face and settles into both warmth and despair.

“Mason,” she murmurs.

“Gonna take you home, sweetheart.”

She nods. “Okay.”

I help her up.

She’s steadier than I expect—Taya Morningstar apparently holds herself together even when she’s not sober, which surprises me but also doesn’t.

She says goodbye to Joy and Bree and sings along with Alicia Keys, who’s crooning now.

“You get her home safe,” Joy instructs.

“Yes, ma’am.”