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In the places where I haven’t figured out the lyrics yet, I mumble like Paisley suggested, letting my subconscious work on the puzzle. Hints of words and phrases roll off my tongue, things like “tenderness” and “making plans.”

When the last notes are played, we sit in stunned silence.

“That was good,” she says.

“Really good.”

There’s still work to be done, but we’re so close I can taste it. Apparently my stomach can, too, based on how it grumbles in agreement.

“Crap, what time is it?” Paisley glances at her watch. “I’m sorry, Kash, I’ve gotta run. I told Mom I’d help restock the gift shop before it opens.”

I stand with her as she starts packing up. “Anything I can do to help?”

She shakes her head and zips her guitar into its case. “Not really. Why don’t you keep working on your song—”

“Our song. We’re a team.”

Paisley pauses in the middle of shrugging into her jacket. I reach out and help it on. The vibrant orange-and-red plaid fabric sets off the auburn highlights in her hair. I sweep a loose strand out of her face, letting the back of my hand brush over her cheek.

She sighs and presses up on her tiptoes to kiss me. Our lips meet and I pull her in close, loving the way she feels in my arms.

Paisley pulls back and nibbles her bottom lip. “I can meet you in the studio later tonight. Around eight?”

Eight hours seems like forever to have to wait to see her again, especially after everything we just shared. But I said I’d take what I can get and I meant it.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

November 24

Granddad’s driving up from Nashville to pick me up first thing tomorrow morning, so we’re under some pressure to get the tracks for the demo of “I Could Need Someone Like You, Baby” recorded today. If we’re able to finish it up before I go, then we’ll only have four songs left to work on when I get back. Barry hasn’t checked in lately, but it would be nice to have something ready to go just in case the folks at Exit 12S get anxious for another sample.

“I could try to have Granddad drive me back on Friday,” I offer. But based on how busy Hidden Acres has been over the past few days, I don’t expect Paisley would have much time for me anyway, if I did. The farm’s schedule for Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and Small Business Saturday is chock-full of activities and events.

Paisley’s standing in front of the studio’s recording equipment, plugging the XLR mic cable into the audio interface. “I appreciate the offer,” she says, grabbing a quarter-inch cable from a pegboard behind her. “But I think we have it under control.”

“I want to be helpful,” I say.

“I get that. And I appreciate it. But what do you know about making wreaths from fresh tree trimmings?”

“Er.”

“How do you feel about plaster of Paris?”

My brows knit in confusion and Paisley laughs.

“Exactly. No offense,” she says, coming over to wrap her arms around my shoulders. Her fingers tangle with the hair at the nape of my neck. “I think…” She pauses, as if looking for a polite way to say what’s on her mind.

“I’ll just get in the way?”

“Maybe a little.” She lifts onto her tiptoes and presses her mouth to mine.

I tug her closer and deepen the kiss, tasting traces of the vanilla chai latte she had earlier. I pull away long enough to mumble, “Probably a lot.”

Because I know nothing about making wreaths or plaster of wherever.

“You know,” Paisley says, looking up at me from beneath her lashes. “I do have something you can help me with on Sunday.”

“Count me in.”