Chapter One #2
“I agreed with him.”
Her eyebrows rose higher. “You agreed with a Calhoun to his face?”
“I did.”
I took another sip. Brandi’s eyes narrowed.
“How tall is he?” she asked.
“His height isn’t relevant.”
“So he’s very tall.”
“He’s maybe six three.”
Her grin widened. “What color are his eyes?”
“They’re blue.”
“And his arms?”
“Brandi, stop.”
“I’m gathering facts.”
“He works a cattle ranch, so his arms look like he works a cattle ranch.”
She lifted her glass. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
I took a long drink of wine.
“Did he agree to shut down the music?” she asked.
“No. He was right not to.”
“And then you told him he was right,” she said.
“I did.”
Brandi lifted her glass. “That’s promising.”
“It was a municipal meeting, not a date.”
“Then why do you know his exact height?”
I bit into a peach slice. Juice ran over my thumb, sweet and cold. Outside, cicadas buzzed beyond the windows while the ceiling fan stirred warm air through the room.
Brandi tipped her head. “How’s the bungalow?”
“The countertops went in Friday.” I turned my phone and showed her the latest pictures: pale quartz catching the sunlight, stripped hardwood waiting for its final finish, the opening between the cramped kitchen and living room finally widened.
“The kitchen feels twice as big now. I’m starting the built-ins tomorrow. ”
“It already looks incredible.”
“It looks like a construction zone.”
“It looks like you know what you’re doing.”
I looked at the photo a second longer. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“Then say that without sounding surprised.”
“I have a business degree. I’ve managed budgets, contracts, event vendors, schedules, and half the town’s emergencies for six years.”
“You’ve done all of that for your father.”
“That’s right.”
“And your brothers got the titles.”
Garrett’s schedule could rearrange an entire office without him entering the room. Bobby developed commercial properties and liked to send me photos of tile samples as if that made us colleagues.
“I got a desk ten feet from Daddy’s office,” I said.
“You also bought a bungalow without any of them knowing.”
“I paid for it with my salary and savings. The LLC is legal, and every permit went through the normal process.”
“I’ve heard the speech. You’ve practiced it on me every month since closing.”
“Because when my family finds out, the first question will be what I did wrong.”
Brandi’s expression softened. “What if you didn’t wait for them to find out?”
I reached for another cracker. “I’m not showing Daddy until it’s finished.”
“Why are you waiting?”
“Because then it’ll be proof. He can’t call it a hobby after I sell it.”
“He can call a thunderstorm a scheduling problem. That doesn’t make him right.”
I laughed, because Roscoe Luttrell absolutely would’ve tried to move rain to Thursday if Garrett couldn’t make Wednesday.
Brandi settled deeper into her chair. “You know what your problem is?”
“I have several. Please narrow it down.”
“You keep making safe goals.”
“Buying a neglected ninety-nine-year-old bungalow in secret wasn’t safe.”
“It was smart. You researched it, budgeted it, inspected it, and created three spreadsheets before you made an offer.”
“I made five spreadsheets.”
“Exactly. Where’s the reckless part of your summer?”
I raised my glass. “This is my second serving of wine on a Monday.”
Brandi stared at me.
“Fine. My life lacks danger.”
“It lacks anything you’re doing just because you want to.”
The screen blurred briefly as she reached for something. When she came back, she held up a notebook with a pink pen clipped to the cover.
“I’m not doing whatever you’re about to suggest,” I said.
“I haven’t even asked yet.”
“You have your dare face.”
“I want you to write a summer bucket list.”
“I already have one. Finish the bungalow. Research my next property. Create a business plan.”
“Those are action items.”
“They’re excellent action items.”
“They’re painfully responsible.” Brandi pointed her pen at the camera. “Write down what you’d do if your father, mother, brothers, and every woman in the garden club temporarily lost the ability to judge you.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “That sounds like a medical emergency.”
“Eight things. No editing. No pretending you don’t have fantasies.”
I looked down at my glass. “Why eight?”
“Because ten will make you negotiate and five won’t scare you enough.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve been your best friend for eleven years.”
I set my glass on the little desk by the window and opened a blank page in my notebook. The guesthouse lights reflected against the dark glass. Beyond them, the main house glowed across the lawn, elegant and familiar and close enough that I could’ve walked there barefoot.
Brandi’s voice came through the laptop behind me. “Start with something you’ve always wanted to do.”
I pressed the pen to the page.
“I’ve always wanted to do something after midnight,” I said.
“What happens after midnight?”
The third glass of rosé made the answer easier.
I started writing.
Skinny-dip after midnight.
Dance barefoot with a man who makes me forget who is watching.
Do something reckless without asking anyone's permission.
Kiss a cowboy against a wall until my knees stop working.
Let a man use his mouth until I forget every rule I've ever followed.
Tell a man exactly how I want to be touched - and make him listen.
Ride a cowboy until he's the one begging.
Have sex somewhere I absolutely shouldn't.
For three full seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Brandi squealed so loudly my laptop speakers crackled.
“Oh my God, Shay.”
I covered my face with both hands. “I’m blaming the wine.”
“No, ma’am. Wine didn’t invent any of that. Wine opened the door.”
“I’m never reading it again.”
“You’re sending it to me right now.”
“I’m absolutely not sending it.”
“You’ll wake up tomorrow and turn ‘ride a cowboy’ into ‘attend an outdoor concert.’ I need evidence.”
I wiped tears from the corners of my eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love me. Send it.”
I copied the eight items, opened the top conversation in my recent messages without reading the name, pasted the list, and hit send before I reconsidered.
“There,” I said. “You have permanent proof that I briefly lost my mind.”
Brandi glanced away from the screen, presumably at her phone. “I don’t see it yet.”
“Copper Falls technology. Give it a minute.”
By the time we ended the call, my plate was empty, the rosé bottle was lower than good judgment recommended, and the phone lay facedown beside my notebook.
I took my glass to the sink, drank a full tumbler of water, and set another on my nightstand. Then I washed my face, changed into a sleep shirt, and climbed into bed under the slow sweep of the ceiling fan.
My phone remained silent on the desk.
I slept beautifully.
***
Tuesday morning arrived bright, hot, and unforgivably cheerful.
Sunlight poured through the bedroom curtains before seven. I showered, twisted my hair into a loose knot, and made breakfast tacos with scrambled eggs, cheese, and peach salsa left from Sunday lunch. I was halfway through the second taco when I set my coffee on the desk and turned over my phone.
One unread message waited in the thread labeled TITUS CALHOUN.
My stomach dropped so fast I nearly lost breakfast.
I opened it.
My bucket list filled the screen, complete with every numbered fantasy and cowboy-related detail. I’d sent it at 10:43 p.m. to the man Daddy sent me to threaten only five hours earlier.
His reply waited below it.
TITUS: Now that’s quite a list.
Coffee sloshed over the rim of my mug and onto the desk.
“No. No, no, no.”
I grabbed a napkin with one hand and typed with the other.
SHAY: That message wasn’t intended for you.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
TITUS: I assumed you weren’t following up about the music permit.
My face burned hot enough to rival the morning sun.
SHAY: It was for my best friend, Brandi.
TITUS: That makes more sense than a permit follow-up.
SHAY: You can’t show it to anyone.
TITUS: I haven’t.
SHAY: Did you screenshot it? Forward it? Mention it to anyone?
TITUS: I didn’t. I read it, replied, and kept it to myself.
I stared at the message. He hadn’t made a joke at my expense, threatened to tell Daddy, or suggested the whole bar had already voted on item seven.
SHAY: Please delete it.
TITUS: I will.
SHAY: And forget you ever saw it.
The typing indicator appeared, vanished, then returned.
TITUS: I can delete the message. The rest isn’t likely.
I closed my eyes.
I could handle a ballroom full of donors without blinking. I had no defense against Titus Calhoun remembering all eight lines.
My phone rang in my hand. Brandi’s name flashed across the screen.
I answered. “You didn’t get the list.”
“I gathered that when I woke up and still didn’t have it.”
“I sent it to Titus.”
The silence lasted one beat.
Then Brandi screamed.
I held the phone away from my ear. “Please stop enjoying this.”
“I’m horrified for you. The enjoyment is involuntary.”
“He read all eight.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice dropped into sympathy for approximately two seconds. “What did he say?”
I read it to her. “Now that’s quite a list.”
Brandi gasped. “That is an excellent response.”
“It is a nightmare response.”
“It could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve sent a winking emoji.”
“Don’t make me imagine that.”
“Did he show anyone?”
“He says no. He didn’t screenshot it or forward it either.”
“Then Titus has manners.”
“He isn’t my cowboy.”
“Of course not. He’s only the man who now knows you want to ride one until he begs.”
I set my forehead against the cool edge of the desk. “I have to move.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere without cell service.”
“You’d last twelve minutes.”
“I’d have my shame to keep me company.”
Brandi’s grin softened. “Seriously, Shay, he protected your privacy before you even asked. That matters.”
“It does.”
“And you’re not obligated to do anything because he read it.”
“I know that too.”