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“Howie.” Tate points at the older gentleman. “I was just telling Talia I’ll be moving home for a little while.”

Howard’s eyes pop out of their sockets. “You what?”

“Moving home,” Tate carries on casually. “The doctor thinks it’s best I cancel the rest of the tour and rest up. My health is suffering and⁠—”

“Cancel the tour?” Howard spits in a panic. “You can’t cancel the tour. The label won’t allow it. It can’t be that bad⁠—”

My mouth moves before my brain. “He can, actually.”

Both men turn to me.

“Oh, Talia. I didn’t see you there.” Howard looks down his nose at me. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

“Here I am.” I steel my spine.

What a tool. Lord knows why I’m helping Tate. Him moving home is a terrible idea. Awful. Yet I can’t stop talking. After Tate signed his contract, with no legal representation, I looked it over. It was basic, and though I wasn’t familiar with entertainment law, it didn’t appear too conspicuous.

“There’s a force majeure in his contract. Any physical illness, bodily injury, medical procedures, or acute vocal impairment excuses Tate from his duties until fit and well.”

The sound of Howard’s jaw cracking echoes through the room. “Of course,” he grinds out. “How could I forget?”

Convenient.

Tate looks all too smug. Curse my stupid attorney’s brain.

“That’s right,” he drawls. “My girl is smart.”

My cheeks shouldn’t flame at the tiny compliment.

“Why don’t you go call the label and I’ll finish my conversation with Talia?” Tate nestles deeper into the pillows.

Howard doesn’t argue, even though he’s clearly fuming inside. “Yeah. I’ll go do that.”

When he’s gone, I pace the room. “Tate, be serious. Do you think recovering in Iris Meadows is the smartest move? We have things to discuss, yes, but let’s be reasonable. Maybe you can stay at⁠—”

The rumble of snoring cuts off my rant.

I pause, gaping at his slumped form. There’s no conversation. He’s made his mind up.

If I wasn’t worried about his ridiculous brain, I’d smack him in the head with a pillow.

The gleam of his wedding band makes my chest ache, but it’s the sight of his grandfather’s worn leather watch that delivers an arrow straight through my heart. Bitter nostalgia fills my veins like venom.

I hate this.

I hate his stubborn, laid-back attitude toward this whole situation. I hate how my throat tightens, and my eyes burn as I watch him sleeping. I hate the thought of him coming around from his seizure, not knowing what was going on, and me not being there. I hate that I’m certain this is all going to end in heartbreak.

And I especially hate I can’t say no to him coming home, because my stupid, stupid heart would never allow it.

Two days later, I return to Iris Meadows. I’ve avoided all questions from my friends, telling them I was on a tight deadline with work thanks to the last-minute trip to California and there wasn’t much to update them on.

Lies, lies, lies.

The truth? I’d spent the last forty-eight hours spiraling about my upcoming house guest. Only he wasn’t a guest. His name was on the deed. I’d also spun the lie of my demanding workload to Tate, hoping it would deter his visit. It did not, and my watch tells me his flight landed two hours ago, and he’ll be here any minute.

I pace the kitchen, each step driving my anxiety higher.

I’m stunned out of my marching when a car door slams outside.