Chapter 20
TWENTY
The cold air slaps me as soon as I step outside, but I barely feel it.
“Kendra?”
She squeals, and I pull the phone from my ear.
“Cash Walker agreed to do a duet with you!”
“Cash… Walker…” My brain stalls.
“Wants to record a duet with you!” she repeats. “His team called an hour ago. This is what I’ve been working on. I didn’t want to get your hopes up before—but it’s happening!”
I’m barely able to think, let alone form words.
“This is huge,” Kendra continues. “Like, career-changing huge.”
Cash Walker.
The guy who won Breakthrough Artist at the CMAs two years ago. Whose star’s been rising ever since. Whose last three singles have been everywhere. Who sells out arenas. Who people are calling the next Tim McGraw.
“Are you sure?” The words tumble out.
“Yes.” She laughs. “God, Summer, when are you going to realize you’re the next big thing? Start believing it!”
“I—when? How does this even—”
“I’m still working out the dates with his team, but I’ll email over the tentative details. I just got the news, but had to tell you right away.”
“Does Boone know?”
There’s a pause on the line. I’m assuming Boone will produce it. Things have been better since our come-to-Jesus moment last week, but I’m not sure we’re at the going-to-bat-for-me level yet.
And, of course, I’ve told Kendra nothing about the rough start with him. Like if I didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true.
“Good question… I assumed, but I’ll double-check.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me.
Kendra fills the silence. “Congratulations, Summer. This is what you’ve been working for. It’s all happening.”
The call ends, and I just stand there on the freezing sidewalk, staring at my phone.
Cash Walker wants to record with me.
Cash Walker.
A laugh bubbles up, surprising me. Then another. Before I know it, I’m grinning like an idiot in the cold, my breath clouding in front of me.
This is real. This is happening.
I need to tell—
Miles.
I spin and push back through the door, the warmth of the bar hitting me. I barely register the noise, the crowd, anything except the tables in the back corner.
Except him.
He’s watching me approach, and something in his expression quickens my steps. I don’t go back to my seat. I go straight to him, leaning in close enough that he’s the only one who can hear me.
“Cash Walker wants to record a duet with me.”
His eyes widen. “Summer—”
“Kendra just called. His team reached out. They want me.” The words are tumbling out too fast, but I can’t stop them. “Miles, this is—this could change everything.”
A smile breaks across his face. It reaches his eyes, then something shifts behind them. “That’s incredible. When?”
“I don’t know. Soon? Maybe? They’re still figuring it out, but—” I shake my head, the reality of it hitting me. “I can’t believe this is my life. That he wants to collaborate with me.”
“Of course he wants you.”
My heart beats an unsteady rhythm, and I’m about to say something—I don’t even know what—when Natalie’s voice cuts through.
“What’s going on?”
I glance past Miles to find the entire table watching us.
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m going to record a duet with Cash Walker—I’m not sure if you know who—”
Natalie squeals. It’s somehow louder than Kendra’s, and she’s not even directly in my ear. “Oh my God!”
And then everyone’s talking at once.
“Are you serious?” Fox looks genuinely impressed.
“The Cash Walker?” Hannah’s eyes are huge. “Who sings Whiskey Sins?”
“Holy shit, Summer!” Mia’s grinning so wide it looks like her face might actually split.
I’m laughing, trying to answer questions that are coming too fast, my cheeks burn under the attention. Someone pulls me into a hug—Ada. Then Hannah and Natalie.
It’s chaos, and it’s perfect, and I can’t stop smiling.
When I glance back at Miles, he’s watching me with something soft in his expression, but there’s something else there, too. Something I can’t quite read.
The group’s energy eventually shifts back to their own conversations, and I turn to Miles. Then I’m wrapping my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek to his chest. His heartbeat thuds against my ear, quick and strong.
He goes still, for only a second, before his arms come around me. One hand slides up to cup the nape of my neck while the other splays across my back, pulling me in.
“Congrats, Starling,” he murmurs against my hair.
He tightens his hold—
A crash sounds from the bar, followed by laughter and someone shouting an apology.
He loosens his grip, steps back enough to pull out his phone and glance at the screen. “It’s getting late.” He pockets it, then runs his fingers through his hair. “Should we head out?”
Something in his voice doesn’t match his half-smile.
But I nod anyway.
The drive home is quiet, but not awkward. Just… tense. Like the words we’re not saying have filled up all the space in Miles’s Audi R8.
The lights from the houses and streetlamps flicker over his hand on the gearshift between us. I wonder what would happen if I reached over. If I laced my fingers through his.
I don’t.
We pull into the driveway, and I’m still buzzing. From the news, from the celebration, from him.
“Wanna have a nightcap?” I ask as he pushes the door open, Gracie immediately winding between our legs.
“Sure. Yeah.” He picks her up, and I follow them to the kitchen.
He sets the cat down on the counter and opens a cabinet. “What do you feel like?”
“Got any whiskey? It feels appropriate.” I smile.
Another half-smile before he turns away and pulls out two glasses. “Yeah.”
He pours us each two fingers of some fancy brand I’ve never seen before, and hands me one. Our fingers brush, but he pulls back quickly.
“To you,” he says, raising his glass.
“To Cash Walker.” I clink mine against his and take a sip. The burn intensifies everything I’m already feeling. “I still can’t believe it.”
He takes a drink, watching me over the rim. “This is just the beginning for you.”
There’s something in the way he says it. For you. Like he’s separate from whatever comes next.
“Come on.” He tips his head toward the hallway. “Let’s sit.”
I follow him to the formal living room, the one we never use. He flips on a lamp that casts everything in a warm glow, then moves to the record player in the corner.
“Seems fitting,” he says, pulling out an album. He has a vast collection, but I didn’t expect him to have much country music.
The opening notes of Whiskey Sin fill the room, then Cash’s raspy voice, singing about wanting someone you can only have with whiskey on your lips.
Miles settles onto the small velvet sofa.
I sit beside him. The couch forces us closer than the sectional in the TV room would. Our thighs almost touch. I’m hyperaware of every inch separating us.
I take another sip, letting the whiskey roll over my tongue.
He takes a drink, throat working as he swallows.
I should say something. Anything. But every word that comes to mind feels too honest.
I turn and find him already looking at me.
Neither of us breaks the silence.
He lifts his glass to his mouth again. When he lowers it, there’s a drop of amber liquid caught at the corner of his lips.
“You’ve got something right here.” I reach out, my thumb brushing his jaw, tilting his face toward me.
He goes still.
Every reasonable thought—the leaving, the living together, the album, the uncertainty—my own voice telling me to be smart, be careful, don’t complicate this. All caution falls away. I’m so tired of standing on the edge of something and talking myself back from it.
I lean in with a smile, close enough to smell pine and whiskey, and touch my tongue to the corner of his lips.
The whiskey tastes sweeter off his skin.
Miles jerks back so fast his drink sloshes dangerously in his glass. His chest heaves, eyes flicking across my face.
The record keeps playing—Cash singing whiskey sins, whiskey you—while Miles stares at me, not saying a word.
I force out a breath. The air between us feels muggy. Like a Nashville summer.
“I can’t.” His words come out rough. “Honey, I can’t.”
The record crackles between tracks.
“What—” I start, then stop. “I’m sorry…” I’m not sure what’s happening, let alone why I’m the one saying sorry.
“Don’t.” He sets his glass on the coffee table with shaking hands. “Don’t apologize. This is—”
He runs both hands through his hair. “Fuck. You just got big news, and I’m ruining it.”
“Just tell me what’s going on. I thought—” I stop.
What did I think?
That the almost-kiss on the pond meant something. That the night I came home broken and he held me meant something. The way he looked at me when he spotted me in the stands, like he never wanted me to leave. That I wasn’t the only one counting down days and dreading the number getting smaller.
He stares at his hands for a beat. Then he shakes his head. “You should call your mom. Tell her about Cash. She’ll be—”
“Stop.”
He’s giving me whiplash. Have I missed something? We had a great night, didn’t we? Was there more to that look in the bar? I thought we were on the same page. I thought—
“Did I misread this?” I lean forward but catch myself before reaching for him. “This thing between us—”
“Christ, no.” His knee bounces, then he stands abruptly. Paces over to the window. Stares out at the dark.
I wait.
Finally, he turns back.
He leans against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets. His whole body tense with restraint, like he can’t trust himself to come any closer.
“I can’t—” His voice breaks. “Summer, I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?” I rotate my glass between my hands.
“You’re leaving. In a few months, you’ll be gone and I… I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
My heart pounds so violently I worry it might break free of my ribs.
“Tonight at the bar, seeing you with my friends, seeing you happy about Cash—which you should be, it’s incredible—” His head thuds gently against the wall. “All I could think was that you’re going places I can’t follow. That every day I’m with you, it gets harder to remember you’re leaving.”
He closes his eyes.
“Hey.” I stand, cross to him. Rest my hand on his arm. Under my palm, his muscles are taut. “It’s okay—”
“It’s not.” He’s shaking his head. “It’s not even close to okay. Because you’re going to leave, and I’m going to—” He takes a shuddering breath.
“Miles, look at me.”
He won’t.
“Please,” I beg.
Slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes are red-rimmed, filled with so much pain that I feel it in my own chest.
“I’m already in too deep,” he whispers. “And I can’t—I can’t—knowing how this ends.”
I reach up and cup his jaw. “You don’t know how this—”
“I do.” He pulls back as if I’ve burned him.
I open my mouth. Close it. I don’t know what to say. What I can offer him. How we got here.
“Don’t do this,” I finally say. “Don’t shut me out.”
He flinches. But when he looks at me, his expression is carefully blank. “I’m sorry.” The distance in his voice is worse than if he’d yelled.
“Don’t push me away.” I try to swallow down the lump forming in my throat.
“I’m trying to protect you—”
“Don’t.” My voice shakes. “Don’t make this about protecting me. You’re protecting yourself. You’re scared.”
I see it all in his eyes—the pain, the regret, the truth he doesn’t want to admit.
“I know,” he whispers.
I drain what’s left in my glass. This time, the burn doesn’t warm me. It scorches.
“Goodnight.” I turn and walk out of the room.
Every step feels like pulling against gravity, waiting for him to call me back.
He doesn’t.
The record is on another song—something slower, sadder.
As I walk up the stairs, the pop of a bottle joins the melody.
Then the glug of whiskey.
The sharp crack of glass hitting the table.
I’m halfway up when heavy footsteps echo behind me. I pause, but don’t turn around.
“For what it’s worth—” He pauses. “I wish I were brave enough to have this. To have you. Even for just these months.”
The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over.
I barely make it to my room before I completely fall apart.