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“This’ll only take a minute,” he continues.

The customer selects a gold ribbon, and I grab a pair of scissors to cut it with.

“Please,” he persists. “You’re Paisley, right?”

Does he seriously not know who I am?

I pause mid-snip and look up into a face that’s painfully familiar. It ought to be, since it’s haunted me since May. Thick eyebrows sit over warm brown eyes that twinkle just like they did before. Back when I thought they were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. I hate that they still are.

“I’m Kash,” he says.

“Yeah, I know.” I can’t help but be short with him.

“Barry said I should introduce myself,” he explains. “So, here I am.”

“Barry?” I ask, my fingers fumbling with a fresh roll of tape. I bumble it and it bounce-rolls across the table, sailing over the edge. The roll hits the floor at the exact same time realization hits me.

“Barry said your name was Murray,” I say, mostly for my own benefit, as if that explains this horror show.

Kash Murray is Murray.

Oh. My. God.

“It…is. Well, it’s my last name,” he says with an easy laugh.

The customer waiting at the gift-wrapping counter clears their throat. My chest burns with residual embarrassment and white-hot fury. This farm is my safe haven. And now Kash Murray is here, sullying it with his presence. And Barry, of all people, sent him.

I grab a new roll of tape and snap it into the dispenser with more force than necessary.

I probably can’t get my parents to kick Kash out of the Hideaway, but maybe it’s not too late for me to back out of the co-writing arrangement…

And to think, I was actually disappointed when he didn’t show up at the studio this morning.

The customer coughs to get my attention, and I hand them their package. In spite of my lack of attention and bubbling ire, it’s perfectly wrapped. Maybe I could become a professional gift wrapper, since it doesn’t look like being a songwriter for Exit 12S is going to work out for me after all. “Happy holidays,” I say, but it comes out strangled and angry.

Keep it together.

Maybe if I ignore Kash, he’ll take the hint and go away. He’s about to find out how frigid my cold shoulder can get.

Still, it’s not that poor customer’s fault that the Ghost of Paisley’s Past has just arrived on the scene. I dig deep for some of that hidden Christmas spirit Scrooge managed to find and force my lips into a smile for the next customer in line. “Next.”

Kash doesn’t take the hint. “Look, Paisley, maybe this isn’t the best time for introductions.”

“You think?” I slice off a fresh sheet of wrapping paper and set a box of holiday coasters on it.

He shifts, thrown off by my attitude, but continues, undeterred. “I know you’re busy.”

This guy is unbelievable.

“What else do you know?” I ask, infused with a boldness I wasn’t aware I possessed and unable to hide the snippiness of my tone. Ordinarily, I would keep my mouth shut and dip out ASAP, but I feel like a feral animal backed into a corner, and my claws come out on their own.

For the first time, I hear the confidence in his voice waver. When I look up, his brow is furrowed in confusion. “About?”

“Me.”

He blinks. “Um…Your name’s Paisley. You’re a songwriter. You live on a tree farm…?”

I wait for him to say something about how awful I was as an opener for Six String Justice. How bad he feels that they mistook me for a groupie and disfigured my book with a Sharpie. Or even snark about how many laughs the band shared at my expense after the show.