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“Oh, I—I think I need at least one drink in me before I attempt that,” I balk.

Cruz nods in acceptance, taking a swig of his beer. “You know, I didn’t peg you as the timid type.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You literally saw me have a panic attack.” It’s strange how the words roll offmy tongue so easily, without embarrassment like they usually would. Instead, it just feels like something that happened. Like getting caught in the rain or catching a cold.

“You also stormed onto Thatcher Ranch and immediately started ordering me around, if you recall,” he bites back with a smirk.

I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.”

He just keeps smirking.

I shake my head, chuckling softly. Then I shrug. “I don’t do well in crowds. Or high-pressure situations.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Was that what caused the attack? A high-pressure situation?”

My gaze flickers to his.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he says quickly, sitting up straighter.

“No, I don’t mind,” I say, and surprisingly, I mean it. I don’t know if it’s because I’m starting to feel more and more comfortable around Cruz or simply that I’m far away from home and my old worries can’t find me here,but opening up right now somehow feels less scary. “My mom called,” I divulge. “She and my dad run a prestigious luxury real estate business in Seattle. I work for them—but, not really doing what I want. They want me to be the face of the company, give speeches, do talks, schmooze with the wealthy Seattleites. I’d much rather crunch numbers in an office somewhere—alone—but … they get the final say.” I give a humorless laugh. I look to Cruz to gauge his interest in my rambling, but he’s intent on my story, leaning forward against the table. “Remember I told you that they sent me here for the summer? Well, they sent me away because … because I had a pretty public breakdown. I was supposed to give a speech at this charity function and … I freaked out.”

“A panic attack?” he prompts.

I nod. “Mom and Dad, they never got the whole anxiety thing. They always just told me I’d get over it. And I did, with a lot of things, you know? Making friends, minor social situations, scheduling your own doctor’s appointments, not ruminating so much, notdouble checking that the stove is off fifteen times a night …” I snort. “But when it comes to big groups, public speaking, being the center of attention, the scrutiny—it just never went away. I’m not … strong enough for that, I guess.”

Cruz reaches across the small table, taking my hand in his and squeezing gently. “Take it from someone who’s watched a family member go through the same thing—you’re more than strong enough.”

A lump forms in my throat, and, shocked, I swallow quickly. My mind flits back to this morning—Cruz seeing my scars. It’s something I typically try to hide, and in the dark, no one has ever noticed. But in the morning light, they were clear as day.

And suddenly Cruz Conley has cracked me open like a book, seeing all of me. And what’s more surprising is that I don’t resent him for it. No, I … feelsafebeing seen by him.

Which might be the most shocking thing to have ever happened to me. In the past, when someone hadnoticed my scars, asked questions about them, I’d shut down, shut them out, run away. And yet with Cruz, I’m not running.

“Maybe you just aren’t meant for the limelight,” he suggests with a shrug. “Not everyone is. Not everyone has to be.”

“According to my parents,I’mmeant to be.”

“Maybe it’s time you talk to them.”

“I’ve tried …”

“Maybe it’s time you stood up for yourself.”

The words feel harsh, but the delivery is soft. Loving, even. And as obvious as the statement is, it’s truly never occurred to me before. That my parents are someone I’dneedto stand up to.

“Parents can be tough,” Cruz says, pulling his hand back, giving me space. “Mine are. Well,were—they’re better now.” He chuckles.

I shoot him an expectant look.

“They had ambitions for me. And they meant well, but it was suffocating.And I get it—my mom immigrated here from Mexico before meeting my dad. She had a hard life, sacrificed a lot to get here, and wanted my sister and I to have and achieve everything she never got to. It all makes sense. But spending a decade getting a dozen degrees and becoming some doctor or lawyer? That wasn’t me.”

“They don’t like that you work on a ranch?”

He shrugs. “They didn’t at first. They’re okay with it now. At least they’ve stopped hounding me at holidays. They’ve accepted my choice.” He shakes his head. “And it helps that my sister’s a little genius—getting a PhD in biochemical engineering.”

“Nice of her to take the heat off you.”

He nods. “It is nice of her, isn’t it?”