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“Yeah, we can stay up and finalize everything tonight.”

Coen doesn’t speak. He just leaves. The door swings shut, and Jamie stands, lifting the notebook.

“He wrote this on the trip?” he asks, turning his light blue gaze on me.

I nod, a little cowed. Jamie runs a hand over his face.

Silence.

Tick…tick…tick. Distantly, I can make out Coen talking and pacing in the hall.

“He hasn’t written like this in ten years,” Jamie says finally.

I swallow, body tingling. “Is that good or bad?” I ask.

“It’s good,” Jamie says. “I know I probably seem like an asshole today. I’m just protective, and I don’t know you.”

“I get it,” I say quickly.

“But this is good shit. Really good shit. Maybe some of the best he’s written.”

I’m quiet, but inside, my heart thumps so hard, I feel it everywhere. Finally, I clear my throat.

“So he’s good on the Mason album?” I ask lightly.

Jamie’s jaw works, and then he nods. “The stuff for Mason is great. It’s the entire album he wrote on the back of the pages I’m more concerned with.”

He lifts the book, flipping it open. Every single bit of those blank pages is full of words, music, arrows, circles, tiny notes in boxes. When he ran out of space in the middle, he turned the book and used the margins. When did he have all the time to do that? Was he waking up during the night to write?

“Wow,” I whisper.

Jamie turns, setting the notebook up on the keyboard. His fingers hover over the keys, and he ticks his tongue, like he’s testing the beat. Then, he starts playing, and everything goes still around us. The saddest, prettiest melody comes out. It’s clearly folk, gut-wrenching even without lyrics. A lump forms in my throat. All I can think about is the first night we slept together, how quiet, how guarded Coen was. How we woke up before the sun rose and left the house in the blue light to see the horses.

It makes me remember what it felt like sitting beside him in the truck. Both looking for something. Neither knowing really what we’d find.

Jamie’s fingers falter, then fall silent.

I clear my throat. “What’s that one called?”

He picks up the notebook. “Hit the Road, Cowboy.”

I smile, despite my wet lashes. I said that to him the day we left, and he said it back to me the next day.

A hint of panic sparks in my chest.

I’m broken by that melody. Shattered. And I want to go home and curl up beneath my blankets, because right now, I know I’m well on my way to loving Coen Taylor, and I don’t know how to deal with that. Everything my father ever warned me about churns through my head. My father would know. He’s the person who did all the hurting, and he’s still warning me away.

The door opens, and Coen appears. I drop my face, pretending to curl deeper into the blanket.

“Mason is coming over now,” Coen says.

“I need some stuff from the store,” I say abruptly. “Jamie, can you take me while they do their thing?”

Both men stare at me, confused.

“Uh, you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my purse. “Girl stuff.”