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My brain, usually a hive of anxiety and schedules, slowed. The static noise that had been the soundtrack of my life—the constant low-level hum of expectations—faded. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t waiting for the next thing. I wasn’t preparing for a show, or an interview, or a fitting. I was just... sitting.

A rhythm started in my head. It was faint at first, just a tapping.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

It matched the drip of water falling from the edge of the roof onto the wooden railing.

Drip. Drip-drop. Drip.

My fingers started moving on the arm of the chair, mimicking the beat. It was a slow, syncopated rhythm, something bluesy and sad. A melody followed. It usually did. I didn’t try to stop it, and I didn’t try to force it. I didn’t think about whether it was a hook, or if it was radio-friendly, or if Nash would think it was too slow. I just let it come.

I hummed. The sound vibrated in my chest, a low, gravelly alto that I rarely used on albums because the label preferred what they called my ethereal soprano. But this was my real voice—the voice I had when I was nineteen, before the auto-tune and the polish. I hummed a few bars, improvising, letting the notes rise and fall with the wind moving through the mangroves.

Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm... water rising up... mmm-hmm...

The heron turned its head and regarded me with a sharp yellow eye. I smiled, closing my eyes. I was broke, injured, wearing someone else’s clothes, and hiding in a stranger’s backyard while a storm brewed off the coast. My career might be over. My marriage was definitely over.

But sitting with the smell of the swamp in my nose and a melody in my throat, something both frightening and wonderful settled in. I wasn’t just safe. I was free.

At least until Ben came home.

Chapter Six

BEN

Grocery shopping for someone you are about to kick out of your house requires a certain ruthless efficiency. I stood in aisle four of Island Market, staring at two jars of peanut butter that represented the fundamental divide in my current situation.

On the left, there was the organic, artisanal brand with the oil separated on top and a label featuring a smiling cartoon bear. It cost twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents. On the right, there was the store brand, Southern Home, in a plastic jar with a generic red lid. It was creamy, loaded with preservatives, and cost six dollars and fifty cents.

One was Sutton Vale and the other was Kate Green.

I grabbed the store brand and tossed it into the basket. If Sutton Vale was going to insist on playing the role of Kate Green—the broke runaway currently squatting in my guest house—I was going to treat her like one until I dropped her off. She had arrived with no money and a purse at the bottom of a swamp. She didn’t need organic emulsified peanuts. She needed calories for the road.

I’d been running errands all morning, whether because they needed to be done or because I was delaying the inevitable conversation with the stranger in my cottage. Hardware store, a quick visit with Harper begging off on Sunday dinner with a pretend excuse that I got added to a shift. The reality of housing a superstar was too complicated to contemplate a Coleridge family dinner in a few days. I had enough to deal with. But not for much longer.

I moved through the store with the efficiency of a man performing triage. I bypassed the bakery with its overpriced muffins and headed straight for the bread aisle, grabbing a loaf of generic white bread. In the produce section, I ignored the expensive pre-cut fruit and bagged salads, opting instead for a bag of Red Delicious apples and a five-pound sack of potatoes.

My basket grew heavier, weighing down my arm as I made my way to the frozen food section. This was the cornerstone of the bachelor diet, the place where culinary dreams went to die in favor of convenience. I grabbed three frozen pepperoni pizzas—the three-for-twelve-dollars variety—and a bag of mixed vegetables that looked like mostly carrots.

As I stood in the checkout line, watching the cashier scan a bottle of three-in-one shampoo (body, hair, and face—efficiency in a bottle), I felt a strange, prickly sensation on the back of my neck. It was the feeling of being off-balance. For years, my life had been a closed loop. Work, home, sleep, repeat. My grocery list never changed. My routine never wavered. Now, I was rushing through a checkout line with my stomach tied in knots because I dreaded walking into my own house and telling Sutton-Kate that her time was up.

I paid, grabbed the plastic bags, and walked out into the humid, drizzling day. The rain had let up, but the air was thick enough to swim in. I threw the bags into the passenger seat of the truck—the same seat she had occupied the night before—and climbed in. The cab still smelled faintly of her, a floral scent that cut through the old leather and stale coffee.

"Get a grip, Coleridge," I muttered as I turned the key. The engine roared to life, a comforting, mechanical sound that drowned out the quiet voice in my head asking why I was scared of going home.

The cottage was pleasantly cool when I stepped inside. I had expected darkness, or maybe the flickering light of the television, but the small living space was illuminated by every lamp I owned. Sutton-Kate sat on the gray couch, her legs tucked under her, wearing one of my old shirts over the gym shorts. She had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows, and the hem engulfed her, making her look even smaller than she was.

She jumped up when I entered, a flash of relief crossing her face before she smoothed it into a polite smile. "You’re back. I was starting to think the rain had washed the road out."

"Just traffic," I lied. There was never traffic on Dove Key on a Wednesday. "And groceries. We’ll make some lunch and then we can talk about your exit plan."

I hefted the bags onto the small granite counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Sutton-Kate’s face went carefully blank, but she nodded gamely. “Thanks. I burned the toast for my breakfast so lunch sounds great. And my situation needs sorting. For sure.” With a decisive nod, she squared her shoulders and limped over, favoring her wrapped ankle.

She immediately started peering into the bags. "Let me help. I feel useless just sitting there. Did you know daytime television is mostly lawyers shouting at people?"

"It’s an acquired taste."

She pulled out the loaf of white bread. She held it for a second, her fingers sinking into the soft plastic, as if she were inspecting an alien artifact.