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“No, but⁠—”

“Then you don’t need to be here.”

“I need to supervise. If something goes wrong⁠—”

“Every crew here has a checklist that you wrote. They also have your phone number.”

“I don’t like surprises this close to opening day.”

“Surprises will happen whether or not you’re here for them. I love you, but if something goes wrong, one of them will call you.”

I open my mouth to argue and then close it again because he’s right.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Joe’s. We’re going to eat buffalo wings, drink beer, and if you’re a good friend, I’ll buy you a whiskey later, depending on our mood.”

“Taylen, it’s four o’clock.”

“It’s nine in London, which means we’re already late. Come on.”

I look around the field. Emmett is on his phone twenty yards away, laughing at something. The power crew is doing their thing, and Chief Morrison is walking the perimeter with his clipboard, making notes with a pleased expression. He told me earlier he’d have a report for me tomorrow, unless I needed to action anything urgently.

All the pieces of this complex puzzle are slotting into place, and while I’m the one in charge, there are more players.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Taylen grins, hooks his arm through mine, and marches me toward the parking area before I can change my mind.

“One condition,” he says as he opens the passenger door of his truck for me. “If I get drunk, which is a very real possibility, I am crashing at your place tonight.”

“Deal.”

“You still have that spare toothbrush in the drawer?”

He slams the door shut and rounds the truck. When he gets in, he glances at me. “It’s been a while since I’ve done a sleepover at your place.”

“It has.”

“I miss it.”

“Me too.”

He starts the truck and pulls out of the field. The heat kicks in about halfway down the farm road.

Something about being in Taylen’s passenger seat while he drives us to Joe’s feels like when he got his license and started driving us because he couldn’t drink yet. It’s not quite the same truck he had back then, and now we can both drink and we know our limits. Sort of.

“You know,” he says. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. You’re a very supportive friend.”

“I mean it in the most loving way possible.”

“I have not slept properly in six weeks.”

“Dude, I live on a farm, so no one expects me to shine like polish, but you’re the pretty face of Winterberry. Don’t skip on the skin routine.”

“Yes, Doctor.”