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“Ah, that could work then.”
I study him. “You can always hit me up if you want to co-produce.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t take on anything else right now.”
“I get it.”
“But, send me the songs and I’ll give you a round of edits, on the house.”
“I owe you one.”
That’s another big problem—Coen Taylor is the absolute best in the business. Our long-standing relationship meant that I’d sign a client, pass them off to him, and together we’d make the next star. We were a money-making machine, the dream team everyone wanted. Coen’s still taking on writing clients on a case-by-case basis, but he won’t take the same volume as before. I don’t want him to either. We both almost worked ourselves into the grave before he hit his breaking point. But what this all means is…I need to find myself another writer with a golden touch.
I could do it.
But I won’t, it’s not ethical for agents to be that close in my book. There needs to be a team. The more input, the better.
“Well, good luck at Houston-Best,” he says, lifting his glass.
“I think it’ll be good, but I will have our best eyes on that contract.”
He nods. “Make sure it’s short.”
“Yeah, that’s my priority.”
We both fall into silence. I don’t like how we have less and less to talk about now that his days are filled with things that aren’t work. Not because I’m jealous, but because it reminds me that I should be more like him.
“You seeing anyone?” Coen says finally.
I shake my head, but don’t answer. No, it’s been a long, dry year of nothing. Not a hookup, not a date, in sight.
Everytime I do, my brain drags me back to how it felt to touch . How, for a brief time, my head was quiet and I didn’t feel the urge to run-run-run. Is that what peace feels like? I wouldn’t know anymore.
It used to be easy to just talk. Now there’s a whole year of separation between us. We finish our whiskey in silence. I get up, tapping the counter.
“I’m pretty tired, gonna get some sleep,” I say.
He nods, going to load the glasses in the dishwasher. I climb the stairs, moving down the dark hall. ’s door is slightly ajar, her bed with messy sheets visible. Pausing, I stare through the tiny sliver. Everything that happened those few days churns in my head, so vivid I can’t stop it this time.
Why did I do that?
I should have turned my ass around and went home the second I laid eyes on her and my brain decided I just had to have a taste. Now, I’m fucked up and I can’t shake the need to go in for another round. Then…maybe it would help if I did. It’s possible we could fuck one last time and I could get it out of my system once and for all. We could talk about it, maybe argue just enough that I was over her, and leave without looking back.
No, that’s a terrible idea.
I head to the guestroom and strip for bed, lying on my back. My phone has forty-seven missed texts and five missed calls. I check them briefly, then turn it facedown and plug it in. I’m too tired, too burned out, to respond right now.
Instead, I lie there in silence and think about how I can’t spend long here. She might have escaped me by an inch, but traces of her are all over this house. I’m not interested in being reminded by every half-open door that I fucked up and made a mess with my best friend’s future sister-in-law. They haven’t gotten engaged yet, but they will. And that means Serena will always be in my life.
I played with fire. Now, I’m both burned and burned out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SERENA
It’s balmy in New York when I land. My bag is lost, but this isn’t my first rodeo, so I packed the necessities in my fluffy pink carry-on. Hugh is away on a work trip, so I’m scanning the cars for Mom’s white Cadillac SUV. She’s chronically late. Maybe I should dip into the bathroom and change before registering my lost bag. I wait a few minutes, then head inside. There’s a café first thing. I drag my roller carry-on across the glossy floors and get in line.
I’ve always lived on the ranch. But inside, I’m the girliest girl I’ve ever met. I’ll cowgirl all day long if needed, but in my heart, I want to roll around in fluffy pink, drink iced coffee, and swipe somebody else’s credit card. And there’s no shame in that.
