Page 15

Now, I’m getting closer and closer.

Now, I’m thinking real hard about .

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping she’d give me a chance and sleep with me again. My brain plays a reel of every we spent together for those few nights. The first night, in her bed. The in the shower. Goddamn, nothing has come close to that feeling. It was like being high, but on warm skin and a sweet vanilla scent, on the scrape of her nails, and her breathy little moans.

I shift in my seat, adjusting the front of my pants.

The main issue here is she gave me her number, but I never contacted her because I’m too old and she’s my best friend’s future sister-in-law. Those are the basic reasons. The other thing that alarms me is that she’s a budding musician and she’s really fucking good. I heard her play and sing a bit through the walls. If she had the guts to start posting her music online, some agency would snatch her up quickly. And, deep down, in my business brain, I kind of want that agency to be mine.

My thoughts spiral a little darker.

I was the who took Coen to superstardom. That means I was also the architect of the career that sent his mental health crashing into the ground.

I haven’t told anyone, but I’m really struggling with that.

Blinking, I pop the cap off my tea and sip some, hoping the cold will jerk me out of my thoughts. I turn on the radio, making sure it’s not country because I don’t want to hear my own clients right now. Soft pop fills the car; I only have two pop clients, so it’s a safe bet to get away from thoughts of work.

The problem: it makes me think about and what genre I think she’d do best in.

I go back and forth like this for the entire forty minutes. I’m frustrated, and I need to take a leak when I pull up to the ranch house. The Maligators, two enormous Belgian Malinois, start barking their heads off when I get out. The door swings open, and Coen steps out. It’s been a minute since I saw him, and I take a beat, surprised by how good he looks. In the last several years, he started looking tired and a touch gaunt, with a stare that reached a thousand yards. Now, he’s tanned, he’s gained a little muscle, and there’s a spring in his step as he crosses the drive.

He embraces me, pulling back.

“Well, don’t you look like shit,” he says.

“Yeah, fuck you, I’m traveling.” I drag my bag off the truck bed. “What do you expect?”

“How many hours you pulling these days?”

We go up the front steps. My heart is hammering. The dogs have quieted and gone back to lying on the porch.

“None of your business,” I say lightly. “I’ve got things handled.”

We go inside. In the kitchen, perched on the barstool with a stack of papers on the counter is Sabrina. She’s a slender, bird-like woman, with a pretty face and big eyes framed by dark lashes and freckles. Her dark hair is piled on her head, wispy bangs brushing her brows. As we enter, she looks up and smiles.

“Hey, Jamie,” she says.

“Hey,” I say, glancing around. No , as far as I can see.

Coen starts making coffee, hitting the button and crossing his arms. “I’m about to get dinner going. Sabrina got me a big-ass grill for my birthday.”

“Sounds great,” I say, eyes flicking over the windows.

Sabrina hops off the barstool. “I’m gonna run these papers to the office.”

She disappears down the hall. Coen holds out the coffee and gives me a look.

“What?” I say.

“She ain’t here,” he says.

“Who?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curling. “. She flew out to New York this morning.”

Coen knows that and I hooked up. I told him last year. A tiny bit of relief hits me, followed closely by more disappointment than I anticipated. So I worried about it for hours—well, maybe days—for nothing? Or maybe she was just as preoccupied thinking about me, so she took a flight out so we didn’t have to see each other.

Or she really fucking hates me because I never texted her, so she’s gonna make sure she never has to see me again.