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“No. Convenient would be putting the clipboard back in your hand because you’re better at this than the rest of us. You are. You could take over this yard in ten minutes, and everybody here would let you, because you’d do it right.”

“Then why won’t you?”

“Because you came back.”

Her face shifted.

I kept my voice low. “You didn’t drive eleven hours because the vendor row needed supervision. You didn’t walk into the Bluebird wearing my shirt because Dena needed another copy of the permit. You came back for evenings on my floor.”

She blushed. She’d said those exact words to me last night, and she couldn’t deny it. She looked away, toward the arena.

I rubbed my thumb once across her knuckles. “You’re not producing this one, Priya.”

Her eyes came back to mine.

“You’re attending it,” I told her.

“That’s absurd.”

“I want you to enjoy it.”

“But I am the most qualified person on this property.”

“Definitely.”

“I designed the event.”

“Yep.”

Priya’s fingers loosened in mine. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

There it was.

Not: Who handles check-in? Not: What is the priority? Not: Where is the list?

What am I supposed to do?

I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.

“Come inside.”

“Cash.”

“Breakfast.”

“There are seven trucks in the yard.”

“Eight. Boone’s coming down.”

As if summoned by criticism, Boone crossed from the main house carrying a cast-iron skillet in one hand and a plate piled with toast in the other. Josie followed with mugs hooked through her fingers and a stuffed cow toy tucked under one arm, the plush calf overseeing catering.

Boone took in the trucks. The panels. Ty’s trailer. Doc. Tuck.

Then he looked at me and Priya.

“Food,” he said.

“See?” I said. “Management.”