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“Oh,” she murmurs. Then she’s sliding out of bed and grabbing at a satin robe hanging off the door of her closet. She slips it on and knots it at the waist. “I invited you over. We…”

“Had a really good time,” I finish for her. “You said it was alright I sleep over.”

“Right, since it was so late.” She runs a hand through her hair, messing it further. “Um, I’m going to take a shower. There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want some. Mugs are in the cabinet above the machine.”

Her tone’s polite but without the same fondness from last night. There’s no trace of playfulness or softness to be found.

She’s speaking to me like you would the plumber who comes by to fix your stopped-up toilet. Cordial but borderline businesslike.

As she disappears into the bathroom, I get out of bed and pull on my jeans. My denim shirt remains unbuttoned, hanging open.

I move into the kitchen and figure I’ll take her up on the coffee.

I make enough for both of us.

The mug’s waiting for her when she emerges from her shower, still in her satin robe. Her expression’s neutral, hard to read whether she was expecting me to be gone.

“Figured you’d want some,” I say, nodding my head at the mug, “but didn’t know how you take it.”

“Oh…” she trails off. “Um, black is fine. Thanks.”

I hand her the mug, and we spend a second sipping our coffee. It’s a different kind of silence than the occasional break in conversation we’d had last night at The Hen House.

Last night when there was a brief lull, it was usually due to savoring the live performance. It was a natural pause or moment that felt unhurried.

This silence feels awkward and uncertain.

Vivica avoids my gaze, staring anywhere in her kitchen but at me.

I clear my throat. “So… you hungry? There’s a diner in town that’s pretty good. You been there yet? We could grab breakfast. Obviously, my treat.”

“That’s sweet, but I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”

“Alright, then what about dinner? I know this nice place⁠—”

“Rhett,” she interrupts softly but firmly. Her dark eyes finally return to mine, a note of apology written in them. “Last night was… it was a good time. A really good time. I mean that.”

“I hear a but coming.”

“But,” she confirms, “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Who says it’s got to be anything? We could go for dinner⁠—”

“Not even dinner.” She sets down her coffee mug and offers me a small, sympathetic smile. “You’re a sweet guy. I enjoyed myself with you—more than I ever thought I would. But this was a one-night-only thing, okay?”

One night. Nothing more.

I hold her gaze for a long moment, searching for a crack in her resolve. Any sign I can convince her to give me a shot. At least a dinner together. One real evening.

But I don’t find any in.

Vivica Murphy’s beautiful, intelligent, and even earned Buttercup’s stamp of approval. She’s truly a woman who stands on her own, a sovereign woman, which was what attracted to me to her the instant I saw her at the bar.

There’s no changing her mind. It’s made up.

“Alright,” I say with a stiff nod. “If that’s what you want. I’ll get out of your hair.”

My fingers quickly button up my shirt, then I grab my wallet and boots and head for the door.