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Tate scratches his head. “I have a call with Howard.” He must spot the slight panic in my expression. “It’s just to go over some brand deals.”

“It’s fine,” I rush. “Do what you need to do.”

For a second, I thought he was going to tell me our time was up. I don’t know how this is all going to end, but I do know I’m not ready to say goodbye again. Things have been good between us while we live in this bubble of denial, and I wish we never had to leave it.

“Talia. I’m serious. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yet.” I don’t say it to be cruel. It’s the truth.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and levels me with a look I feel in the tips of my toes. “I’d throw it all away if I could.”

“I’m not asking you to do that.” And he doesn’t mean it. If he’s trying to pacify me, it doesn’t work.

“No.” He sighs, gaze downcast to his bare feet. “You’re not.”

“You can use my office for your call.” I collect our bowls and cup and dump them in the sink. “I’m going to run to the store. Do you need anything?”

He brushes off the sudden change in conversation. “Some gum? I checked the drawers in your office the other day, but they’re locked.”

The bowl slips from my hands, cracking in two as it crashes into the sink.

“Jesus.” Tate rushes over. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“N-no.” Fuck. The papers. I’d totally forgotten about them. I have to get rid of them, but with Tate around every corner, I’m afraid he’ll see them. “They’re broken.”

The key is in my laptop bag, which is conveniently in my bedroom. So long as he doesn’t go snooping, I’m good for now.

“Want me to take a look?”

“No. No. I’m thinking of getting a new desk, so there’s no point.” With a tense smile, I dart past him. “See you later.”

“Will the drought affect the distillery?” I’m perched on top of an old whiskey barrel as Parker draws out a small sample of caramel-colored liquid and dispenses it into two glasses. The smell of unbaked cornbread and tangy fruit lingers in the air.

I should get to the store soon before Tate wonders why I’ve been gone so long. Parker is good to hang out with during a partial existential crisis. She gets so engrossed in her work she forgets you’re here most of the time, leaving you to your thoughts. Plus, the distillery is a pretty cool place to hide out in.

“Only if it continues into the fall. We have plenty of grain to see us through for now, and the temperature isn’t excessive enough to interrupt the cooling process.”

It hasn’t rained in almost two months. The earth is cracked dry, parched for a single drop. “I, for one, am done with this heat.”

“Amen.” Parker offers me a glass. “Wanna try some? I could use a less-experienced palate.”

“Rude, and no thanks.” I turn my lips down. “You know I hate whiskey.”

She rolls her head. “You drink whiskey sours.”

“Correct, and that isn’t a whiskey sour.”

“Amateur,” she grumbles. “Why are you here, anyway? Haven’t you got a husband to play house with?”

“He’s got a meeting with his manager.” The aged wood groans as I kick my legs out. “I think they’re going to tell him to come back.”

“Go back where?”

I shrug. “Tour. Nashville. Space. Anywhere but here.”

Parker abandons her tasks, sets down her tools, and hops up onto the barrel opposite me. She knocks her Dr. Martens with my sneaker. “How’s the no touching rule going?”

Busted. Guilt stains my cheeks. “Oh, brilliantly, if you don’t count me dry humping him at the falls. Is it dry humping if you’re under water? Damp humping? Moist humping? Don’t get me started on the unintentional mutual masturbation session we partook in. Then there’s my mom, who won’t stop calling me⁠—”