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When I walk into the resort where I work, Noble at my side, I make a beeline for my office. My co-worker, Ruby, intercepts us before we even get close.

Her eyes are practically bugged out of her head, and she’s gawking—literally gawking—at Noble when she says, “Hattie, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m gonna wait till you look at me before I respond,” I say.

Beside me, Noble laughs.

Ruby drags her gaze from him, and apparently decides two can play at my game. “What are you doing here with your cowboy?”

Now my eyes bug out of my head. My cowboy? Really? Before I can respond, Noble extends a hand. “Noble Kane.”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

I roll my eyes and mutter, “Good grief.” I keep walking, a flummoxed Ruby quickly trailing behind me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“The fence at the ranch broke and the cows got into the barn,” Noble says as I reach my office and swipe the key card that opens the door.

“Oh no,” Ruby says. “Wasn’t the reception supposed to be in the barn?”

“The reception is going to be in the barn,” Noble says.

I stop moving and look at him. His confidence is reassuring. Almost like I can relax a little because Noble said it’s going to be okay.

I turn on my computer. “I need to see if there’s anything here that’s not being used. Tablecloths, faux flowers, linens, napkins, centerpieces, anything.”

“Okay,” Ruby says. “How can I help?”

I look up, struck by how eager they both are to jump in, hoping I’d do the same if the roles were reversed.

“Check storage?” I say, my nerves starting to settle. “Anything you think could work, go ahead and pull.”

“On it.” Ruby moves quickly. She’s seen the plans for Finn and Raya’s wedding. She knows the color scheme, the aesthetic, and we’ve worked on so many weddings together over the years, I trust her.

After several minutes, she reappears carrying a big box. “I think this is what we can spare.”

I thank her profusely, and Noble takes the box, then we spend the rest of the afternoon driving around town replacing what we can. Every time we hit a cashier, Noble whips out his card and pays. At one point, I tell him I’ll pay him back, even though we both know I can’t afford it, and he looks at me and says, “I’ll be personally offended if you try to pay me back.”

When I start to protest, he levels my gaze. “Please, let me do this, Hattie.”

And I see how important it is to him to be able to help.

I nod softly and decide to stop protesting, even though accepting help of any kind doesn’t come easily to me.

After our last stop, we drive back toward the ranch, and I replay the events of the last few hours. “Do you know it took me weeks to do what we just did in a couple of hours?”

He points at himself. “Man-shopping, my friend. None of this ‘trying stuff on’ garbage. You walk in, you see it, you buy it.”

My friend.

He did feel like a friend today. A good one, in fact.

If I really let him back in, can I learn to be content if friends is all we ever are?

But that’s not the question I should be asking, is it? What I need to know is—if we’re friends again, can I trust him not to disappear again?

If we’re friends . . . can I figure out a way to keep my heart safe?