“Me either.” I shoveled a forkful into my mouth. I could bake three more coffee cakes instead of having this conversation. My dad had passed and that was when we had planned I’d go to her. There was never a good time to lose my dad, but both June and I had been single. Yet I’d chased her off at the funeral because otherwise, I’d have gotten in her way. Or worse, she would’ve stayed. Only that time, I’d known I had to be deliberate. I couldn’t have left her doubting what I was saying. “When this place came on the market, I thought I might expand. I could manage the ranch and have a quiet home away from work.”
She chuckled. “If only that was how it worked.” She knew the life and had grown up doing everything I’d done. When it came to managing a few hundred head of cattle and a handful of horses, there were too many unpredictables that would take me away from home. The plan might’ve worked if I hadn’t lived in city limits, but it would have been impossible to sit out vetemergencies and equipment breakdowns and weather events when I was only miles away.
“I didn’t think we’d ever sell, but Wren tentatively brought it up, then felt awful. But I understood. She lived in the old house and it needed work. She got stranded during storms. She was left with nothing but memories. She couldn’t move or retire when all the assets were tied up in the ranch. Selling just made sense.”
“You miss it.” The crease graced her forehead again, and it only made her more approachable. She wasn’t an airbrushed image in an ad. Couldn’t she have gotten more superficial during her time away? Instead, she was tangible. Touchable. Her satiny skin ready to be stroked.
My mouth turned dry. “No,” I lied. “I don’t miss it.”
She delicately cut off a chunk of coffee cake. “I hope she has no hard feelings. I didn’t call, and then life got busy...”
“You got all the freedom in the world.”
She pushed her plate away. “I should go.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I slapped my fork down. I had no business referencing lyrics even when they had to do with us. Those songs were nothing but a historical account from her perspective. “No. I didn’t mean to bring up all that.” I hadn’t meant to point out that her lyrics made me feel like shit either. “Come on. Finish your snack. Unless you don’t do gluten.”
“It can make me a bit phlegmy before performances.” She accepted my small olive branch.
“Is that a thing?”
The corner of her mouth tipped up. “Celebrities have their quirks for reasons sometimes.”
We ate our coffee cake to the accompaniment oferratic strumming from the other room. As June chewed, I locked on to her lips. Were they still soft pillows that could nibble and suck with?—
I shifted in my chair. I wasn’t a perpetually horny teen anymore, but my mind was going back in time.
“Wren would love it if you called her or even stopped in. I can tell you where she lives.”
Her smile lit up the damn room. “She wouldn’t mind?”
“I caught her humming along to one of your songs.”
“No way.” Her back thumped against her chair and her expression was stunned. “She swore by the classics.”
“She still does. But she’ll make an exception for you. She always has.”
“She’s a wonderful person. I’m really glad you had her.”
A chill circulated through my blood. June was merely alluding to my mother, and I wanted to shut down. I was more successful at forgetting my mom than I was at pushing June out of my head. “Yeah, Wren is special.”
She pressed her fork into the plate to pick up the last of the crumbs. “She and your dad were really there for you when you needed it.”
“It wasn’t like they had a choice. I made it too hard for Mom to take care of me and herself.”
She tilted her head, her crumbs forgotten. “What do you mean?”
Ah, hell. Why had I brought that up? I never discussed Mom or why I’d come to live in Bourbon Canyon with my dad. Whenever anyone asked, including June, I’d said my mom had died. It was the truth. I was a one-night-stand baby from before Dad had met Wren, and I had changed the life of Angela Craft. I had ruinedit. “I was an asshole kid,” I said gruffly. “You know, the usual young-boy-acting-out stuff. Want another slice of cake?”
She didn’t reply right away. I willed her to drop the subject. Finally, she pushed her plate away. “Thank you, but no. I should get going. I have a jingle to work on for Wynter.”
“Did you get your muse back?”
“Not really. Marketing music is different. I need some creativity, but it’s also very technical.” She tapped the center of her chest. “It still comes from here, but the music isn’t for me and it’s not from me. But the song is for a product and company I love, so in a way, it’s opened up a trickle. Maybe ten more songs will follow.” She let out a nervous laugh.
“I don’t want to pressure you, I’m just curious, but can you really write ten songs in two months?”
Alarm darkened the amber of her eyes. “Yes, it’s possible. I can get struck by a huge wave of inspiration and just write until I can’t anymore. It’s happened with others. I’m not ruling it out.”
