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“So…you’ll be there?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
It’s the answer he expects. And sitting around her tonight holds no appeal. Especially with Piper—crap.
I clear my throat right as Hudson is about to hang up. “I might be bringing someone.”
The five silent seconds of shock are almost comical. I’ve never brought a woman back to Oak Grove with me. Which means the last time I had a girl with me at an outing with my friends was back when we were all in high school.
“Wait. What? You got a girlfriend in the past forty-eight hours?”
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “No. She’s here for some work stuff. She works for my record label.”
“You’ve never brought anyone who works for you out before.”
“She doesn’t workforme. She’s just…whatever. She might be there.”
“Okay…” There’s still a note of curiosity in Hudson’s voice, and I wish I’d never mentioned Piper.
Odds are, she won’t want to go anyway. I certainly shouldn’twanther to go.
I finish up in the barn and then head inside. It’s strange, walking into a quiet, empty kitchen. Mabel is usually clanging pots and pans around by now.
I glance inside the fridge, at the leftover lasagna we had for dinner last night. There’s a second smaller container for Piper without any ground beef. I shut the fridge door, sigh, and then head upstairs.
The stairs creak with each step, emphasizing the silence in the house. If Piper’s rental car wasn’t still parked out front, I would have assumed she left.
I hate that I looked for it as soon as I got back from the fields.
Stray pieces of grass seed itch my skin as I walk down the hall toward the spare bedroom that used to belong to my mom.
My steps are heavy, and it’s purposeful. I want her to know I’m coming.
I knock once, then hold my breath.
Absurdly, I’m nervous.
She’s staying atmyranch. Followingmyschedule. Waiting formymind to change.
But for some reason, it suddenly feels like everything in my life is rotating around the decisions Piper makes instead of the other way around.
“What?”
I take the question as an invitation, twisting the handle and opening the door with a confidence I don’t feel.
It’s my house, technically. And she’s an interloper, not an invited guest.
Piper is sitting cross-legged on the quilt Mabel spent last winter making, frowning at something on her laptop screen. Her intense focus on the computer feels deliberate, and I’m certain it has everything to do with how our last conversation ended.
I clear my throat and force the words out. “I’m sorry.”
They taste strange.
I don’t apologize.
Not because I’m incapable of admitting when I’m wrong. Because I don’t push that far to begin with.
I’m easygoing. Accommodating. Understanding.
