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“Bold of you to assume I’d be sleeping with you,” I say.

He gives me a hard stare. “Bold of you to assume I’d let you sleep anywhere else.”

“God, stop it.”

“I won’t, but you know that.”

He comes close, taking me by the back of the neck. He dips in, blue eyes flashing. Then, he kisses me deeply. Something has changed. I feel it in the pressure of his hands, in the timbre of his voice.

“Are we going to talk about what you’ve been putting out into the world? The covers you’ve been posting. The ones you’re hiding from your sister and Coen,” he says, pulling back.

Embarrassment shrivels in my chest. “We already did.”

“We breezed over it.”

“Maybe after a few shots of whiskey and a hot meal.”

He lets me go, heading to the kitchen. I follow him and climb on a stool at the breakfast bar. The kitchen reminds me a lot of the one I grew up in at the ranch house, just updated, the way Coen and Sabrina have it now.

“There’s a small grocer about twenty minutes up the road,” he says, leaning on the sink and crossing his arms. “I’ll run up there and get something, grab some propane for the grill. We should be set for a few days.”

“That works for me.”

His eyes flick across the room to the big window overlooking the back field. “I used to hunt out here for venison.”

“Really?” My brows rise.

“Yeah, I was trying to be more ethical with my food. I’d come out here in November, do a few weeks of hunting, and eat off it when I stayed here.”

“You used to stay here more often?”

“I work more now.”

It baffles me how he could work more than he did in the last several years. Coen has talked about how they were always on the road, always in some executive’s office, always in a studio with some artist. The thought of adding to that seems extreme.

“You should work less,” I say.

He shrugs. “Right now, I’m working less.”

I give him a coy look from beneath my lashes. “But only because you’re trying to get pussy.”

“That’s true. Not trying very hard, but still getting it.”

“Oh,” I say, biting back a smile. His smirk makes me weak. “I can make it a lot harder for you, if you want.”

His jaw ticks. “You make it so hard, it’s uncomfortable.”

Tension ripples. He comes to the counter and leans on his elbows, so close I can make out the shades of blue in his eyes.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll go hunt and gather.”

I laugh, and he kisses me briefly, like he’s mine. My stomach is a pit as he grabs his keys, slinging them in a loop, and strides down the hall. Silence falls. I go to the sink and fill a glass with water, trying to wet my dry throat. There seems to always be a lump in it these days.

My phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and put it to my ear.

“Hey, Mom,” I say guiltily. “Sorry, I meant to text.”

“You’re fine, honey. I’m just checking on you.”