Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
“You really didn’t have to be my chauffeur on your day off.” I look over at Miles, who’s focused on the road.
“I don’t mind. I don’t have any plans, plus, you said you had a headache last night.”
“I also said I just hadn’t had enough water and was totally fine this morning.”
The car creeps forward, traffic crawling on Route 68.
“I’m stopping by the shop after I drop you off,” Miles says. “See if there’s any hope of saving her.”
“Good luck,” I huff, staring out the window. “I’ve been arguing with the insurance company for two weeks, and they’re dead set on totaling the Bronco.”
I catch the tick in his jaw. “I know. I’m sorry. But maybe—”
“You can’t pay to have it fixed.” It’s the same thing I said when he initially offered. “It’s fine. It was old anyway.”
“But you love it.”
Yeah. I do.
It was my first and only big purchase just for me.
Saved up for two years to buy it outright.
No loan. No co-signer. Just me and that beat-up piece of junk.
But it was my piece of junk, and we had plans together.
I was going to fix her up, restore her beyond her former glory.
Like those fancy restorations that constantly pop up on my social media feed.
Bright blue, or green—I was leaning toward orange. Make sure everyone saw me coming.
I smile at the thought.
“I know what they said, but I want to check for myself,” he adds.
I nod, throat tight. I won’t get my hopes up.
He reaches across and takes my hand, and I squeeze his back.
Twenty minutes later, Miles pulls into the long driveway, following the road past Boone’s abandoned house, and stops in front of the barn-slash-studio. A shiny blacked-out SUV I haven’t seen before takes up the dirt lot where I usually park.
A man—no, not a man. Cash Freakin’ Walker—leans against the driver’s side, one foot kicked back against the tire.
He looks a few years younger than me. Wearing expensive jeans, an equally expensive-looking caramel suede jacket, and aviator sunglasses, even though it’s overcast, phone pressed to his ear.
He looks like he walked off a Country Living magazine cover, but has a bit of rebel-without-a-cause to him, too.
“Is that him?” Miles asks.
“Yep.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, reach for the door handle, but then turn back. “Thank you for driving me.”
“Of course. I’ll pick you up around five?”
I nod, then he leans across the console and kisses me with a hand at the nape of my neck, holding me against him. It’s hard and thorough with a promise of more later.
“Good luck,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to mine. “You’re going to be amazing.”
“Thank you.” For the ride. For checking on my car. For believing in me.
For being him.
I flinch when my door is opened, and cold air rushes in. Cash Walker rests an elbow on the door, plants his other hand on the roof, and dips down to peer into the car.
Okay, I was not expecting that.
Up close, Cash is even more intimidating. I don’t think he’s got a pore on his face. And his eyes are a vibrant blue, the kind of color I wished for when I was younger, not yet appreciating my dark brown.
“You must be Summer.” He flashes a Crest-commercial smile, floppy blond hair falling over his forehead.
All I manage is a small nod. I feel like I’m meeting Superman. I thought I was prepared for this, enough to not come off like a starstruck fool, but apparently not.
He reaches across to greet Miles. “Cash.”
Miles clasps it with his free hand, the other still resting on the nape of my neck. When they part, Cash flexes his fingers, then winks. “Strong grip.”
“Hockey,” is all Miles says.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Cash steps back, leaving room for me to get out.
But Miles tugs me back for another kiss, one that’s very clearly for our captive audience of one. When enough time has passed to land right on the edge of rude, he eases back. “Call me if you need me, okay?”
“I will.” I hop out. “See you later.”
Cash slow claps before shutting the door behind me, then finally takes a couple of steps back.
When he offers me his hand, I place mine in his, and he brings it to his mouth, kissing my knuckle. It reminds me of when Easton did it at Sully’s, but Cash makes the gesture smoother. Still, I shake my head.
“Nice to meet you.” His voice is so melodic, the words run together and almost sound like a song.
“You sure know how to make an impression.”
“I try.” He presses his key fob, popping his trunk, and grabs his guitar. His gaze drifts over my shoulder. “Why’s your boyfriend scowlin’ at me?”
“He’s not—”
I dart a look back at Miles, and yep, he’s definitely scowling. I smile wide and wave. He gives me a small grin, then whips a quick three-point turn and disappears down the driveway. I have a feeling there’s some staking-my-claim sex in my future, and I’m very much looking forward to it.
“C’mon, darling,” Cash cajoles, swinging an arm over my shoulder and walking toward the studio.
I shrug him off. “My mama’s the only one allowed to call me darling.”
He chuckles. “Noted, Starling.”
“Sorry.” I smile. “That one’s taken, too.”
“What am I gonna call you then?”
“Summer works.”
“Now that’s no fun.” He smirks. Not sure I’m a fan of that particular look, but I don’t say so.
Cash holds the door open for me, but then I lose him to the horses.
And I mean completely lose him.
The smirk disappears. His whole demeanor changes. He stops at every stall, greeting each one gently. Like they’re old friends.
His smooth-talking country star persona suddenly nowhere to be found. Maybe we have that in common—the version most people get to see versus the real one. Too soon to tell.
“Do you ride?” I ask.
“Whenever I can,” he replies, running his hand along the chestnut mare’s neck.
I only know she’s a mare because Boone let me tag along a few weeks ago when he let them out, into the pasture.
He introduced me to each one. I’d never heard him talk so much, so I listened.
This one’s name is Canndy—with two-N’s—Boone was very specific about that.
She leans into Cash’s touch, eyes half-closing.
“You’ve got a way with them.” I lean against the empty stall behind me.
“Grew up on a ranch. Spent more time with horses than people most days.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “You ride?”
“No. Riding is an expensive hobby. Plus, I’ve always been kinda scared of them.” I laugh, then lower my voice. “But don’t tell anyone. It’s not very ‘country music’ of me.”
He tips his head toward Canndy’s stall. “Come here. She’s sweet.”
I step closer. The horse turns her massive head toward me, dark eyes curious.
“Hold your hand out flat,” Cash instructs. “Like this.”
I copy him, and she sniffs my palm before huffing a warm breath across my skin.
“She likes you,” he says.
I let out my own huff. “How can you tell?”
“Just can.” He takes hold of my wrist and directs it to her nose. “Horses are good judges of character.”
This side of Cash reminds me a bit of my younger brother, just replace cars with horses. Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
I stroke her. She’s softer than I thought she’d be. Boone didn’t include hands-on time in his short lesson.
“Is this a test? Do I get your stamp of approval?”
“Sure thing.” He chuckles. “Where are you from?”
“Nashville. Grew up a bit outside of it, but the city feels like home.”
Or, at least, it did for a while. Now I’m not so sure. Home is starting to feel like a place called M-I-L-E-S.
“City’ll make you forget where you came from if you’re not careful.” Something in his voice makes me glance up at him. There’s a weight there that wasn’t before.
“You miss it? The ranch?”
“Every day.” He shrugs. “But you can’t chase what you want and stay in one place. Least, that’s what they tell me.”
I think about Miles. About Chicago. About how leaving could ultimately mean choosing one dream over another.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, but the stubbornness in me still doesn’t believe it’s true.
The studio door clangs open, startling the horse and us.
Cash darts a look over his shoulder at the grumpy man I’ve come to kind of like.
“Morning, Boone!” I say, overly cheery.
“Summer.” He gives me the tiniest smile before looking at Cash with his usual scowl. “Cash, I presume.”
“I’m wounded. Surely, you know who I am.” Cash stretches the limits of his cheeks with this particular grin.
Boone only shrugs.
I blink. Boone doesn’t know him? Cash Walker has three Grammys and sells out stadiums across the country. How does he not know who he is?
Cash manages to widen his smile, all teeth. “I can see your reputation is accurate.”
Boone doesn’t deign him with a response, pivoting back into the studio. And my steps pick up after him. “He’s a tough nut to crack,” I tell Cash over my shoulder, glad he’s actually following.
“I like a challenge.” He stops to run a hand down the last horse’s neck. “Good thing I bring my charm wherever I go,” he snarks.
Boone is in his usual spot, sitting in his swivel chair at the boards, scrolling on his phone.
“You’re late.” He spins in his seat to face Cash.
Cash checks his watch. “By two minutes.”
“Still late.”
They’re having some kind of stare-off. I glance between them—Cash raises one brow; Boone furrows both of his.
I’m happy to know it isn’t just me. Boone is equally, if not more, of a jerk to Cash, who probably commands more respect than most people in the industry.
I clap, successfully gaining their attention. “We should get to it, right?”
“Let’s,” they both say at once, then resume their stand-off.
This is going to be a long day.
I’m waiting outside at four-fifty-five—couldn’t stand to be in there with those two idiots any longer—when gravel crunches down the driveway.
Miles’s car appears, and I jog to the passenger’s side. I have the door open before it fully stops, and I climb in.
“Why’re you out in the cold?”
“Ugh. Don’t ask,” I say, even though I plan on talking his ear off about it.
He studies my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just… an interesting day.” I buckle my seatbelt. “Boone and Cash have some kind of weird tension. I don’t know why, but they spent the whole day in a pissing contest.”
Miles’s mouth twitches in an almost smile.
I lean my head back against the seat. “I’m exhausted. Remember when I thought Boone didn’t like me when we first met? Yeah… that was nothing in comparison.”
Miles hums, listening.
“The two of them couldn’t agree on literally anything. At one point, Boone and I went back to working on my solo stuff while Cash sulked on the couch. Then Cash pulled the ‘my time is precious’ act, which gave them something else to argue about. It was a mess.”
He reaches across and takes my hand. “Sounds like you need a drink.”
“Please.”
“And an orgasm,” he murmurs, and I laugh.
“Yes, one of those, too, please.”
“I’ll give you three.” He glances over at me with a smirk. And I take back what I said about not liking those.