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My head does. My heart hurts the way it has for a long time.

I shut the notebook and push it back into my pocket. After I see Mason, I’m going to find the time to pull Sabrina aside and tell her how I feel. I can’t just put her on a plane and walk away. I was kidding myself if I thought I ever could.

Crossing the room, I pull open my bedroom door. I don’t know what I’m going to say to her, but for right now, I can say it with my body.

The rest will come later.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

SABRINA

The sex is burning hot and bittersweet. When it’s all over, I lie on my side with my head on his bicep while he rests on his back with the covers pulled to his waist. Everything is so quiet. Through the window, I can see a manicured lawn and a cardinal sitting on the edge of a lawn chair. I wonder if he’s ever had time to sit there, or if he’s gone so much that the birds use it alone.

“Should we talk about the elephant in the room?” I whisper.

“What’s that?” he murmurs.

I glance up. His eyes are shut.

Slam.

Sitting bolt upright, I pull the sheet over my chest. He pushes himself to his feet and grabs some sweatpants from the dresser, pulling a t-shirt over his head.

“Was that a car in the drive?” I ask.

He nods, tossing me a button down shirt made of soft, stretchy material. It hangs far enough that I don't need pants, but I still grab my panties and shorts from the floor and pull them on. I follow him out to the kitchen and through the window. I can make out a topless sports car. A man stands beside it with a phone to his ear, back to the house.

“Who is that?”

“Jamie,” he says, voice low.

He doesn’t seem angry, just tired. I pull back and skirt around the other side of the counter. Coen’s footsteps track across the floor, and then he opens the door and steps onto the porch. They stop. I grab a coffee mug and a pod, setting them up and hitting the button. The man’s footsteps join them, and the door opens, the room filling with a new presence.

I turn around, fixing a smile on my face.

Oh, Jamie is not what I expected. He’s about the same age as Coen, but he’s a little bigger, bulkier, and very handsome. I guess I never really asked how old he was, but I had a different image in my head when I heard agent for a songwriter. His hair is cut short, light brown, and he has a short beard, just stubble, plus a mustache. He’s in a shirt similar to the one I’m wearing—a stone beige, rolled up to his elbows. It looks like he was more formal when he got up, but then the day wore on him.

I have to resist taking out my phone and snapping a picture for Serena. Just like she knew Coen was my type, I can tell she’d eat up Jamie on a platter.

“Hey,” he says, not smiling.

“Hi,” I squeak.

Coen skirts around him. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Jamie lifts his palms. “I haven’t said a thing. When you get in?”

“About an hour or so ago.”

He leans on the counter, gesturing. “Time enough to get sex hair, I see.”

I touch my hair, flushing. Coen flips him off and takes my coffee from the machine, setting it on the counter.

“I got some shit for Mason if you want to meet at the studio later today,” says Coen.

“Good,” Jamie says.

It kind of feels like there’s a lot they want to say right now. My stomach twists, and I wonder if Coen intends to put me on a plane before he heads to the studio.