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“You—”

“I want you to stay,” he blurts out.

I’m speechless. He clears his throat, waiting.

“Until when?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. Just please, don’t go.”

I can’t deny him asking makes me want to cry with happiness for a second. Then, reality sets in. I can’t just leave. I don’t want to just leave the ranch and run off with him. I love my dad, despite everything, and I am attached at the hip with Serena. Plus, that’s my land.

My home.

“I can stay until Aunt Eugenia has to leave,” I manage. “But that’s only a day or two.”

“Good. Stay.”

I nod, head whirling. What did Jamie and him just talk about? Before I can say another word, he takes me by the chin and kisses me hard.

“Go on, shower,” he says. “Meet us in the kitchen.”

He disappears, and I go dazed into the shower. It only takes five minutes to get scrubbed up, dried off, and into my clothes. Then, I put on my cowboy boots and grab my purse. When I step into the kitchen, they’re talking quietly by the island, and they stop the second I appear. Coen has his notebook in one hand, phone in the other.

“Alright,” says Jamie, flipping his keys. “Let’s rock and roll.”

We leave the house, and Jamie gets behind the wheel of his car—so expensive, I have no idea what make or model it is. Coen helps me into the back seat and sits in the passenger. Then, we’re off, flying down the state route leading into the city. Jamie drives too fast but like he knows what he’s doing. I’m not sure what to expect for a studio, but it’s not to drive right through the downtown to what looks like an industrial district before he turns off into a gravel drive.

He cuts the engine.

“Anybody using the studio right now?” Coen asks, getting out.

“Dax was here a couple days ago. Other than that, no.”

Coen lets me out, hand on my back. Jamie’s eyes follow the movement, but he doesn’t say anything. He just circles the vehicle and goes to unlock the blacked out glass door. When we step inside, I’m hit with the faint scent of incense and wood. Jamie flips on all the lights, and we’re in a plain front room with a hallway to the right.

“I told him not to burn that in here,” Jamie grumbles.

“It’s fine,” Coen says, taking my hand.

We go down the hallway, entering a studio space with bamboo wood walls, a black floor, and couches along the wall. It’s plain but cozy, and clearly expensive. There are instruments and sound equipment in spades. On the far wall is a fancy guitar, a little brass plaque I can’t quite read beneath it.

“You want anything, baby?” Coen says. “Water, coke? We have a coffee maker?”

Why is it so embarrassing for him to say that in front of Jamie? Maybe because he’s been watching me like a hawk. I glance over, and if Jamie hears anything, he doesn’t turn around as he sinks down at the keyboard.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll sit over on the couch.”

He leans in, but that’s too far for me. I shake my head and give him a stern look, retreating to the couch. Curling up in the corner, I wrap a blanket around my legs.

“You got lyrics or music?” Jamie says.

Coen sinks to a chair by the keyboard and tosses the worn notebook. Jamie flips it open and starts reading.

There’s a very long silence. Minutes tick by. I watch the clock above the door, counting down at least ten of them. Jamie shifts and leans his elbow on the keyboard, flipping a page. Nobody speaks for another fifteen minutes. Finally, Jamie clears his throat and snaps it shut.

“Why don’t you step out and call Mason?” he says. “Ask if he can meet tomorrow.”

Coen stands. “Here?”