My shoulders sag. He’s right. “This is a charity gig. That has to make a difference.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t, my man.”

  Frustration kicks up to a boil inside me. “There’s gotta be a way to let this one slide. Can’t you find a way?”

  “Jackson, they own everything you’ve made. They own you. Or have you forgotten?” Artie’s voice rings through my room. I wince.

  “I need you to try,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “Please.”

  Artie sighs dramatically. “Okay. I’ll try. But don’t get butthurt when we hear back from them. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Once the call ends, I’m festering in the silence of my bedroom, poring over the interaction. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but I’m unwilling to believe that the label could be so devoid of humanity.

  A creak outside my door snags my attention, and I surge to my feet, pulling open the door.

  Bella is in the hallway, wrapped in a towel, creeping away from my door.

  “What were you doing out here?” I bark.

  “Just heading to my room after a shower. Jeez!”

  “Were you eavesdropping on me?” My gaze slides over her bare shoulders and down the pink cotton towel that’s been reserved as one of the “guest towels” since time immemorial. I find droplets of water kissing her toned calves.

  She watches me for a moment, looking confused. “No.” Her throat bobs. “But it’s hard not to overhear things in this house. The walls are thin.” She pauses, gnawing on the inside of her lip. “Do they really own you?”

  I expel a frustrated sigh. “So you heard everything.”

  “I just don’t see how it’s possible, they can’t own you⁠—”

  “It’s a figure of speech. They don’t own me. But they own every song I’ve created over the past five years, and they’ll own them forever. Which means even once I’m done with the label, I’ll never be able to play those songs without paying them. Now you know. Any questions?”

  Her face softens, and her mouth turns downward. “God. That sucks.”

  “Can you please not say anything? I don’t want this to get out. I don’t need the drama.”

  “I would never say anything.” Bella stiffens, tightening the knot of her towel around her. “Why do you think I would?”

  “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.”

  Silence thumps between us, our gazes fiery as we stare each other down.

  “I’ve given you no reason to not trust me,” she snaps.

  “You’ve made it very clear what you think of me throughout the years.” I’ve stepped closer to her without choosing to. It’s got to be that damn towel she’s wearing that’s making it hard for me to think straight. Bella is hot—no, she’s smokin’. I’ve thought it since the day I laid eyes on her, but she was always uninterested or already taken. She shrinks slightly as I approach, but I catch the flash of desire in her eyes.

  “You’re a cocky guitarist in LA,” she says. “They’re a dime a dozen. Doesn’t mean I’d blab your secrets to the media. I work in this industry, too. I don’t need to burn any bridges—especially when I’m staying in your childhood home.”

  She has a point. It placates me for now, at least.

  “So what do you plan to do? If you headline the concert and can’t play any of your current songs…”

  I rake a hand through my hair as my mind returns to this unsolvable knot. “I’m trying to figure that out.”

  Bella shifts in the hallway, bringing my attention back to her near-nakedness. I’ve never spent this much time with Bella before—much less in cramped quarters, and certainly not while a decades-old guest towel is the only thing separating my eyes from her creamy skin.

  “Maybe cover songs?” she suggests.

  “Or…possibly…” I shrug. “An entirely new album.”

  Her brows shoot upward. “You think you could write a totally new album by June?”

  “I could write a totally new album by next week if I wanted,” I inform her.

  “I’m sure you have the ideas inside you,” she hurries to add. “Probably enough for three more albums. I’m just wondering if…I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be a huge ask? How do you pull something like that off? If you’re recording in LA with your band, would the label own what you make?”

  I clench and unclench my fists. “They don’t own my new music going forward unless I submit it to them as part of the contractual albums they’re expecting from me. Which is why I’m thinking of not doing it in the studio, or in conjunction with the label. Just writing something else on the side, for myself, that I’d have the rights to perform.”

  “Stay…here?” Now she looks fearful. “In Fork Lick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fork Lick doesn’t seem like it’s very conducive to your…process,” she says.

  Her words act like a cheese grater on my composure. “What would you know about my process?”

  “There’re no instruments here,” she says, looking around as though trying to remember a list of reasons I shouldn’t stay here. “No amplifiers. No band. No studio. These walls aren’t soundproof…”

  All I can hear and see from her is doubt. People trying to shoehorn themselves into my life and make my decisions, decide what they want without any input from me. I step closer again, and she snaps her mouth shut.

  I’d intended to make my position clear, but now that we’re inches apart, I suddenly can’t see past her bare collarbone. The sweet gardenia scent of her shampoo reaches me, and some of my irritation dissolves.

  “Listen.” I try to remember what I needed to express, but she makes it hard, being so half-naked and here. “You don’t have to believe me. All you have to do is sit back and watch.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk. “Like just another adoring fan, huh?”

  “Depends on how much you adore me.”

  Electricity snaps between us. My fingers curl with the urge to tug at her towel, but I restrain myself. The last time I made my intent to seduce her known, everything friendly between us imploded. That was years ago, but I’ll never forget it. She’d been taken at the time—which I hadn’t known—and I’d misjudged the level of attraction between us. Turned out, she’d never been a fan of Jackson Bedd.

  Bella all but rolls her eyes, slipping past me and opening her door. “I can never give you the level of adoration you crave,” she says. “It’s not humanly possible.”

  The door swings shut, and I’m left staring at the wood. Intrigued, aroused, and feeling a lot like somewhere between her words, she was telling me game on.

  Chapter 6

  Bella

  “So you think I’m on the right track?” I’m on the phone with my boss, Katerine, who just got the long-winded spiel of all the recent developments—minus the details about Jackson’s record label. I’m back in downtown Fork Lick, walking the sidewalks as I envision the layout of the festival map, which I just sent to her. It’s Sunday, so this is my last-minute preparation before meeting with the town leaders in the morning.

  “I think it looks great!” Katerine sounds enthused, but it might be because I told her I got Jackson Bedd to headline. Nothing else matters when the right act joins the show, and she knows it as well as I do. “Listen, you feel out the municipality, get a sense for how best to approach them. But remember, you gotta work this hometown angle. Once you drop Jackson’s name, I’m sure they’ll have no problem approving whatever it is you want.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.” I check the stack of papers in my hand, then look down the street at the municipal office. I’d planned to visit a few days ago, but Jackson’s intrusion on my planning lunch derailed everything. But I can’t say that I’m upset about it—he did agree to headline the festival as a result. “I hate name dropping, but I think this might be the instance where it’s helpful.”

  “Drop his name,” Katerine insists. “Drop it like it’s hot. Because that man is sexy.”

  I roll my eyes, but I don’t disagree. The only problem is that most of America agrees with her. And the longer I spend sharing his childhood home with him, the sexier I think he is, too.

  That’s why for the past few days, I’ve been spending as much time out of the house as possible. Reducing my chances of running into Jackson while exiting the shower = smart. Minimizing the amount of times I overhear him strumming a new chord progression is crucial to my well-being. Because the fact that I’m beginning to learn the ins and outs of his personal routine is not helpful to my status quo.

  Turns out, the man takes care of himself, which makes him even sexier. He gets up early to run. He eats well. He kisses his grandma on the cheek each morning.

  I can’t know things like this about America’s heartthrob or my own heart will throb right out of my chest.

  Now that it seems like he might not actually leave like I was counting on, it’s even more important that I find a way to keep distance between us. Which would be a lot easier if Fork Lick wasn’t the size of a, well, tiny fork.

  “What do you think is the most interesting thing you’ve learned about Jackson since staying with his grandma?” Katerine asks absentmindedly. In the background, I can hear her typing on her computer. She works every day of the week, because events obey no schedule.

  I frown. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that his ego actually fits in a regular-sized room?”

  Katerine laughs. She’s just as jaded and exposed to the mania of celebrity as I am, but she has a soft spot for Jackson. I’m not sure how. Jackson has been intolerably cocky and off-putting since day one, relying solely on his good looks and his undeniable talent to woo people. The only reason I’m softening up to him now is because I’ve gotten a peek behind the veil.

  “He has a lot to be proud of. Hey, Bella, I gotta run. My avocado toast was just delivered. We’ll touch base soon, okay?” Katerine hangs up, and I’m left staring at my reflection in the front window of a yarn shop, which I haven’t seen open once since arriving in Fork Lick. I couldn’t get avocado toast delivered to me in Fork Lick if I paid someone a thousand dollars to do it. I pocket my phone, heading to the northern end of the main street one last time to envision the road closures and make sure I haven’t overlooked anything critical to the town.

  As I piece together the intersections and the impacted businesses, visualizing the big stage and how the barren streets will look full of people, I spot a man jogging across an intersection at the far end of the street.

  Something about his gait suggests Jackson, but from this distance I can’t quite see his features. About every three seconds, another person crosses the intersection, jogging behind him. At least seven women trail behind him, and I can’t tell if this is his most dedicated fan base or a Fork Lick jogging club he’s spearheaded.

  It doesn’t matter to me, though I admire his tenacity in sticking to a workout plan, something I’ve never been able to do. I’m not going to be yet another woman fawning over him and trailing behind him. I have no interest in pumping his ego balloon even larger.

  Somebody has to right the scales, for God’s sake.

  It’s not even noon, and I’m out of ideas for how to spend the rest of my day that doesn’t include hiding in my bedroom. The weekly family dinner is tonight, which I’ve really come to look forward to. They’re warm and chaotic and remind me of my family back in Bayshore. Staying with Ethel has been a reminder of home in general—what it feels like to have roots and people who care about you on the daily. I guess I’ve been missing that, even though I chat with my cousin and get family updates as often as I can.

  I head back to Bedd Fellows Farm, my mind made up. I’ll go see if I can help Ethel somehow. The other day, I caught her filming Baabara, which I thought nothing of until she showed me a well-edited social media video she’d created. Diane has been helping her grow her social media accounts, and it shows—the likes, shares, and comments on her sheep content videos were astronomical.

  Back at the house, it doesn’t take me long to find a groove. Ethel is making bread, so I help knead the dough before it rests. Then we move onto veggie prep for the dish she plans to make. We’re slow-cooking the chickens by the time Jackson breezes through, his sun-kissed skin gleaming with sweat.

  “Have a nice jog?” I ask before I can help myself.

  “Great.” He doesn’t even stop as he heads for the stairs.

  “Did you start a jogging club?”

  His feet are thumping up the stairs, so I only just catch his response. “Nope.”

  I frown. So those were diehard Jackson Bedd fans.

  Ethel and I continue to prepare dinner. Hours melt away, until most everything is ready, the places are set, and people are arriving.

  Ethan and Lia are the first to arrive, followed by Alex and Molly. Bacon shows up with one baby in his arms, then Sam shows up with the next. Colleen and Diane meander in later, deep in conversation. The house is instantly full of noise—laughter, conversation, chairs scraping, babies occasionally fussing. The only person missing is Jackson. I keep checking to see if he’s coming down, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  “Lia, do you want sparkling water or alcohol tonight?” I assume my position at the kitchen island as the informal drink preparer. I’ve been supplying new wines, beers and seltzers to try at every Sunday dinner. Beverage making is my love language.

  “I want one of your fancy seltzers,” she says, her dark eyes lighting up. I get to work creating one of my boozy seltzers, adding a slice of orange for the rim of the glass and a sprig of mint. She hums happily as she receives it, where I notice the bruise on her arm from a recent infusion for her Crohn’s disease. I get to work offering the rest of the family my bespoke creations. Only Alex and Ethan opt for a can of locally-brewed beer instead—I get it, too fancy for them—and pretty soon, almost everyone is carrying around a cocktail or mocktail that I’m proud of.

  “I think it’s time to eat,” Ethel announces, clapping her hands. She heads closer to the family room, shouting in the direction of the staircase. “Jackie Boy! Dinner’s ready!”

  I roll my lips inward, tucking away the cute nickname. Jackie Boy. If only America knew about this. I surely won't be the one to tell them. Finding out Jackson doesn’t trust me had stung, though I’d never admit it to him. Not getting along for years is perfectly fine, but considering me untrustworthy? Unacceptable.

  “He probably won’t show up,” Alex says in a joking tone, but I can hear the seriousness behind the words.

  “Ironic, considering he’s finally not three thousand miles away,” Ethan adds. “But I wouldn’t expect any different.”

  My skin prickles as I hear Jackson’s footsteps coming down the staircase. He strides into the room, the air going taut. Even his entrance into the family dining room feels electric. Poetic, even. The way he shakes his hair out of his eyes and scans the room feels like a prelude to an unforgettable show. I jerk my gaze back to the kitchen island where I’m finishing cleaning up from my drink prep.

  “There he is!” Ethan says over the din, as everyone gets settled into their spots at the table. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”

  Annoyance streaks Jackson’s face, and it occurs to me that every interaction with his family begins like this. I overheard it the day he arrived, and I’ve been hearing it since. I join the table, my gaze falling to the meal in front of me as I realize that I’ve been doing the same to him. The least I could do is surprise this man with his own bespoke beverage. I get to work mixing something that feels very Jackie Boy to me—something like a martini, served in a tumbler, garnished with a slice of orange—and bring it over to him as he’s suffering through his brothers’ inquisition.

  “You leaving tomorrow?” Samuel is asking as I plop the drink down on the table in front of Jackson. Jackson looks up at me, question marks in his gaze.

  “James Bond-style martini,” I tell him before gliding to my spot at the other side of the table. “Enjoy.” In my head, I’m calling it The Jackie Boy. But that’s not for him to know.

  “Thanks.” To his credit, Jackson at least looks touched. Then he turns his attention to Sam. “The plan was to head out tomorrow⁠—”

  “Back to LA, huh?” Sam asks. I’m tuning in, desperate to learn more about Jackson even while telling myself I know everything I need to about him.

  Jackson shrugs resignedly. “I guess so. But I’m not sure. I might stick around here a little longer.”

  “Jeez, must be so hard living in paradise,” Ethan pipes up. Again, there’s the joking tone to his voice, but the words leave papercuts. Even I feel it. I glance between Ethan and Lia, and I can see Lia elbowing him under the table.

  “Wouldn’t mind swapping places with you for a week,” Molly adds.

  “You’d never pass as the lead singer of Single Grain,” Alex murmurs. “I hear you in the shower, sweetheart.”

  “How did Jackson end up with all the singing talent, anyway?” Colleen asks her gran. “It’s never seemed fair.”

  Jackson cracks a grin at that one, but it fades quickly.

  “I’ve been listening to all your music,” Diane confides, leaning over the table. “I just love your lyrics.”

  “Can we not turn this into an I Love Jackson hour?” Sam mutters. “He gets enough of it as it is.”

  Thud.

  Jackson’s gaze shifts to the side door in the kitchen. Ethel twists in her seat, following his gaze.

  “Oh, heaven almighty,” she says exasperatedly.

  Thud.

  “Is that Baabara?” Bacon asks, leaning in his seat to peer toward the door.

  Thud.

  “She’s obsessed with Jackson,” Colleen explains as she checks on the twins. The babies are resting in a twin-friendly travel bassinet they bring nearly everywhere. “But she’s not coming in for dinner, right Gran?”

  Ethel doesn’t confirm or deny this, instead clapping her hands together. “Let’s eat, Bedds and Fellows!”