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Jenna waves a hand, black nails glittering. “Don’t worry about it. We know Jamie around here.”

“Can I get you a coffee?” Rita says, rising.

“Oh, I can get it.”

“Nonsense. Sit,” she says in her curt voice.

In a few minutes, we’re all back at the table. This time, I have a plate of buttered toast and a cup of strong, sugary coffee.

“How’s Madi?” Jenna asks brightly.

“She’s good,” says Jamie carefully. He glances at me. “We don’t bring up Madi; she picked between our agencies. Jenna’s a bit sore.”

“What was meant to be will be,” says Rita, her phone going off. She sorts through her purse while it blares a Springsteen song until she finally locates it, putting it to her ear and making her way from the room.

“Got somewhere important to be?” Jamie asks, glancing at Jenna.

“Big client meeting.”

“You need to leave? I can lock up the studio for you. I’m staying until we fly back to Wyoming tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “It’s more Rita’s client than mine.”

“I’m your client,” I break in. “Right? That’s how it works?”

“Correct,” says Jenna from behind the steam from her mug. “You’re with MET, but you are my client.”

“Okay, that’s what I thought.”

“Jenna’s a good fit for you,” remarks Jamie, leaning back and crossing his ankle over his knee. I love seeing him relaxed like this, all splayed out, without his usual tenseness. “You two are gonna do big things.”

“I agree,” Jenna hops down. “Speaking of, do you two want to go to the studio and play a bit?”

“That’s fine,” I say, rising and reaching for my toast. “Let’s go.”

We all head out the side door. The lawn is frosty, sun dappling the tree line and sending long shadows across the deep green beneath our feet. My toes are cold in my sneakers by the time Jamie holds open the studio door for us. Inside, it’s warm, and everything has that distinctive studio smell. It’s a scent that I’m growing fond of—paper, dust, instruments, and a little bit of pine.

We head down the hall to the main room. The ceilings are tall, walls pale wood, and the floor is covered in dark green rugs. The recording space sits to the side, behind glass. Up ahead is a baby grand, not unlike the one in Jamie’s house in Maine.

God, it feels like so long since that day.

“You want to play something?” Jenna asks.

I glance up, unsure if she’s speaking to me. Her eyes are fixed on Jamie.

“Nah, I’m okay,” he says.

Jenna jerks her head toward the guitar rack. “Come on.”

He gives in, crossing to the bench beside the window seat. I see him in profile, and he’s so handsome it hurts my heart. Behind him is the pond, all glassy like an icy oil painting. Right away, I know I want him with me if I come out here to record for Jenna. He fits right in somehow. Quietly, he selects one of the guitars: a simple acoustic Yamaha that reminds me of something my dad would play when I was little.

He rests it on his knee, fingers finding the tuning pegs. It’s so clear that, despite him not being a musician professionally, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Come here, baby,” he says, jerking his head.

I go, sinking down beside him. It’s cold here by the window, but I don’t mind.

“Find that song you just posted, let me listen.”