THE TREE FIELDS are glowing.

I don’t know who was in charge of wrapping the pine trees with strands of twinkling lights, but whoever it was, they did their job with enthusiasm. Every tree in the south field looks like a star plucked straight from the night sky above, a warm, golden glow reaching its fingers across the dusky fields.

There’s a dance floor in the middle of the trees pieced together with old rugs pulled from storerooms across the farm, a patchwork of color and patterns littered with pine needles. Tables cluster around the edges, tidy bonfires contained in shallow metal drums to chase the early autumn chill away. The big red barn has its doors thrown open wide, and wedding guests spill out into the fields with laughter and music and light, their hands curled around mugs of wine and cider.

Woodsmoke curls between the blooms that are twined in garland from tree to tree—sunflowers, chrysanthemums, daisies—an unbroken chain of flowers circling the entire wedding. Baby’s breath peeks from in between the branches of the trees, nestled so it looks like snow has settled on the thick green branches. Jimmy Durante rasps over the speakers about making someone happy and beneath the canopy of flowers and lights and branches of pine, the groom dances with his bride.

Luka spins Stella out and her pale pink dress flares around her legs. He tugs her back, and she folds herself into him with a smile that rivals the twinkling lights around them. They slip between the trees, and I lose sight of them, nothing but the fabric of her skirt and the edge of his jacket as they spin around and around.

“They look happy, don’t they?”

My sister appears at my side, cake plate in hand. She sighs wistfully as the happy couple appears again on the far side of a misshapen Douglas fir, eyes locked on each other. Luka says something, and Stella tips her head back with another laugh, long hair tumbling over her shoulders. Luka’s smile softens into something tender and private. It feels like I shouldn’t be watching them at all.

“They should be.” I reach for the half-empty bottle of wine in the middle of our table and top off my drink until the red is even with the lip of my glass. I lean forward and take a noisy sip, raising my eyebrows at my sister. “It’s their wedding.”

A wedding that is a decade in the making. Luka and Stella spent a majority of their relationship pretending they didn’t want to be more. It took Stella buying a Christmas tree farm and inexplicably deciding she needed a fake boyfriend to nudge that in the right direction.

Harper narrows her eyes and pinches her lips in a look so reminiscent of our mother that I get a shiver down my spine. She takes the seat next to mine and balances her dessert plate on her lap, hunching over it slightly. I think she’s afraid I’ll swipe it right out of her hands.

“Is that your third slice of cake?”

Harper looks at me with her fork sticking out of her mouth. “You’ve been counting?”

“Yes, Harper. I’ve been sitting here in the shadows, counting how many slices of cake you’ve decided to eat tonight.”

I’m surprised there’s any left. Layla, the bride’s best friend and the owner of the tiny bakehouse in the middle of the tree farm, made quite the statement with her confection. Three tiers of delicious sponge cake. Buttercream icing. Cannoli filling piped between the layers. Tiny daisies iced around the edges and pine branches lovingly hand-painted over every inch. The cake looks like it belongs in a museum, not in the middle of a field with a bunch of inebriated townspeople.

There was almost a fistfight when they brought it out.

I reach out and swipe my finger through the icing on my sister’s plate, ignoring her scowl.

Harper pinches the skin right above my elbow in retaliation. “Be nice,” she says.

“You be nice.” I rub at the spot she twisted. “What? You can’t share your cake?”

“You can get up and get your own.” She gracefully crosses her legs and tilts her plate farther away from me, gold stilettos glinting in the lantern light. I wiggle my bare toes in the grass. I have no idea where my shoes are.

“I meant be nice about the happy couple.” She shoves another forkful of cake directly in her mouth. “Doesn’t it make you feel even the slightest bit romantic?”

“The cake?”

She waves her fork in the air, then stabs it in the direction of Stella and Luka. They’re barely swaying between the trees, their arms wrapped tight around each other as the world moves around them.

Harper sighs dreamily. I take another loud slurp of my wine.

“Don’t you want something like that?”

I don’t bother thinking about it. “No.”

This day has been lovely, but…I don’t know. Romance isn’t exactly a priority for me right now. Of course I’m happy for Stella and Luka. After an almost decade-long game of “Will they? Won’t they?” it’s nice to see them happy.

But do I want that for myself?

Not particularly.

I’m comfortable in my solitude. I like the quiet. I like eating dinner by myself and picking what to watch on TV. I like starfishing in the middle of my bed and setting my thermostat to the perfect temperature. I like rolling myself like an overstuffed burrito in all my blankets. I like having my space to myself, and I like not having to compromise. I don’t need to share my every day with someone to suddenly feel fulfilled.

My favorite person to be with is myself, and my relationship of choice is brief, consensual, and satisfying. If I have an itch that needs to be scratched, I can always find a casual hookup easily enough.

Though that hasn’t happened in quite a while.

Maybe that’s what’s got me twisted up. I’ve been so focused on the studio, I haven’t had a casual hookup in ages. Maybe the lack of physical release is starting to turn me into a goblin. A gremlin. One of those stone creatures my mom keeps buying me for my garden. Maybe a hookup will soothe some of my anxieties. Maybe it’ll help me turn my brain off for a bit.

Harper arches an eyebrow, blissfully unaware of where my thoughts have tumbled to. “You can’t marry a tattoo shop, you know.”

“Because that’s what all women should aspire to, right? Marriage?”

She pokes me hard in the ribs. “No. You know I don’t think that.” It’s true. Harper is just as committed to her design business as I am to the tattoo studio I’m trying to lift off the ground. But she’s always had a soft, romantic heart. And I’ve watched douchebags take advantage of it for years.

I’d rather not lose myself in a relationship, thank you very much.

Harper frowns at me around another forkful of cake. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

“Who says I’m lonely?”

Her frown deepens. “You’ve been sitting over here by yourself slurping wine.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m lonely,” I grumble. I prefer the quiet, and my feet hurt from dancing. “I’m not lonely. I don’t have time to be lonely.”

I’ve been running in a sprint for the last six months. If I’m not thinking about the logistics of the new studio, I’m working on some sort of permit or tax form or expense report. And if I’m not working on one of my endless forms, I’m tweaking marketing items and ordering chairs and eyeing my budget with thinly veiled panic. When I crawl into my bed at night, I don’t think or feel a single thing beyond bone-deep exhaustion and a lingering sense of imposter syndrome.

But even with all the new, substantial weight on my shoulders, I love owning my own business. I love being one of the only female-owned and female-operated tattoo shops on the East Coast. And I love that I’m getting ready to open up a new location in the place I grew up. My first studio that’s fully mine, not just a space I rent with other artists in a co-op. It’s a risk opening in a town as small as Inglewild. Foot traffic won’t be as strong as it is down on the coast, but I’ve always wanted a place here. In the town where I grew up. Where all my favorite people are.

I just have to hope that the reputation I’ve built for myself is strong enough to bring clients over.

But that’s a worry for another day.

Harper boops me gently on the nose with her fork. “You just went spiraling again, didn’t you?”

I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Possibly.”

She clicks her tongue. “You need to relax. Cut loose.” She eyeballs my overfull wine glass and the bottle I’ve claimed as my own from behind the makeshift bar. “If you keep going like this, you’re going to burn out.”

“Who is burning out?”

My older brother Beckett claims the other chair next to me, tie missing and sleeves rolled. I’m shocked he stayed in a full suit for as long as he did. He’d spent the duration of the ceremony tugging at his collar as he stood next to Luka.

He’s at ease now though. A bottle of beer held loosely in his hand, his forearm braced over his knee. His dark blond hair looks strange without a backward baseball cap, his blue-green eyes uncharacteristically bright tonight. I grin at him and he grins back. Beckett and I, we’ve always been a mirror reflection of one another. More comfortable on the edges of things. Shoes off. Tie missing.

I poke one of the vibrant tattoos painted along his forearm. My first and very favorite client. His arms are completely covered in my work from wrist to shoulder. When I landed my first apprenticeship, I had trouble establishing a client base. But Beckett let me tattoo him when no one else would. He walked right into the studio I begged for space at and plopped down in the chair. Stuck his arm in my direction and gave me a blank, expectant look.

Beckett has always believed in me. Even when I haven’t necessarily deserved it.

I tilt his forearm so I can get a look at his latest. A simple collection of meteors drawn in thin black lines.

“It’s healing well,” I tell him.

“Of course it is.” He tilts his arm and peers at it. “You did it.”

My smile slips into something that wobbles at the edges. Sometimes it’s difficult to live up to the rose-colored glasses my brother wears for me. He thinks I can do no wrong, and I’m afraid the day I finally do something to disappoint him, it’ll break both of our hearts.

I drain the rest of my wine glass without comment. Harper and Beckett exchange a significant glance above my head that they don’t think I can see.

I ignore them both.

That’s the trouble with growing up the youngest of four. I know they mean well, but my siblings tend to treat me like an unruly toddler in need of constant supervision. I know that’s why Harper came over here. Beckett too. I think they’ve got a version of me stuck in their heads where I’m four years old and struggling to keep up, mud on my cheeks and gummy worms hanging out of my mouth. Beckett still puts his big hand on the top of my head when we’re in parking lots like he’s afraid I’m going to run directly into traffic. I’m twenty-six years old.

I cut my eyes toward him.

“Has Layla forgiven you yet?”

“Ah.” Beckett rubs the back of his neck and glances around the field. I spot Layla by the cake table in a pretty maroon dress, her back against her fiancé’s chest and…glaring daggers at Beckett.

Beckett sighs, low and slow. “I don’t think so, no.”

“That must make work difficult.”

Beckett is one-third of the trio that runs this farm. Stella oversees the marketing and business, Layla runs the bakery, and Beckett is head of farm operations. Things have always been smooth sailing between the three of them, though this certainly seems like a hiccup.

“It hasn’t made it easy,” he sighs.

“Clearly.”

“I think the wedding brought up some feelings.”

“Well, she and Mom will have something to commiserate about, then.”

Beckett drags his hand over his face. “Is she still mad too?”

Harper and I snort in unison. “Beckett, you’re her only son, and you eloped on a Tuesday afternoon. She didn’t even get to make a slideshow of your baby pictures. Or do any of those creepy mashup things of you and Evie that predict what her future grandkids might look like.”

Beckett’s cheeks flush a furious shade of red. Last month he showed up to family dinner with a shit-eating grin, a new gold ring on his finger, and his wife on his arm.

“Layla’s just mad she didn’t get to make the cake.”

“Of course she’s mad she didn’t get to make the cake. I’m surprised she didn’t write it in the fine print of her contract.”

“She probably did,” he grumbles. He glances up, winces, and then finds something interesting in the grass by his feet to study. “She’s probably going to take me to court for breach of contract.”

“You’d deserve it.”

Across the dance floor, Layla’s eyes narrow like she can hear exactly what we’re saying. Caleb curls his arm around her without looking away from the person he’s talking to, his palm at the base of her throat. His thumb rubs up and down the long line of her neck, and she relaxes in increments, head tipped back against his shoulder.

I don’t know what the hell is in the water in Inglewild, but the last five years have been a domino effect of couples…coupling. It started with Stella and Luka and cascaded all the way down. My brother and Evie. Layla and Caleb. Matty, the pizza shop owner, and Dane, the sheriff. Mabel from the greenery and Gus, the town paramedic. I’m pretty sure the two stray dogs that circle around the fountain in the middle of town are even going steady now.

“It’s also entirely possible that she wanted to be there for you on one of the biggest days of your life.”

“I wanted something small,” he explains with a sigh.

“It doesn’t get smaller than you, the bride, and the courthouse official.”

He takes a healthy swig from his beer. “The hot dog guy too.”

“What?”

“The guy who sells hot dogs in front of the courthouse was the witness.”

Of course he was. “That’s great, Beck.”

Beckett shifts in his chair, leaning back and slinging his arm over the back of it. His gaze jumps around the reception and then his whole face brightens like someone just flicked a Bic lighter behind his eyes. I follow his line of sight to where Evie is weaving through the tables toward him, still in her flower crown from the ceremony. Her eyes find my brother and hold, a soft smile blooming on her pretty face.

For a long time, I thought Beckett was as uninterested in relationships as I am. But then Evelyn showed up and my brother fell fast and hard.

They move together seamlessly, like they’ve choreographed this dance. Beckett tips his leg slightly to the left as Evie closes the space between them. She perches herself on his lap with an arm around his neck, and he lifts her hand from his shoulder, mouth brushing briefly over the inside of her wrist and the dainty little lime wedge I inked there.

I never thought I’d see him like this. Soft. Content.

Happy.

Evelyn grins down at my brother and combs her fingers through his hair. He hums and tips his forehead against her jaw.

“Do you need your headphones?” she asks in a low whisper. He shakes his head and tightens his grip on her.

“Told you,” he mutters as I try not to listen. “S’quiet when I’m around you.”

Something in my chest pulls tight. Beckett has always struggled with sound and people. I’m glad he’s found someone who loves that bit of him as much as the rest. Someone who makes it easier for him to be exactly who he is.

“Layla’s still mad about the cake,” Evie tells him, voice louder. “She spent all morning while we were getting our hair done talking about how we need to have a real wedding with a real cake.”

“We did have a real wedding,” Beckett grumbles. Evelyn drops a kiss to the crown of his head and hums her agreement. “Plus, I don’t think the fields can withstand another party.” He leans back in his chair to stare critically at one of his branch babies. “Charlie almost took out three spruce trees trying to start a conga line.”

He nods toward the dance floor. The music is something heavy and quick now that Luka and Stella have left the dance floor for the carnage of the cake table. There’s a small crowd forming at the very center of the layered rugs and in the middle, of course, is Charlie Milford.

Stella’s half brother. Party boy. Serial charmer. I don’t think there’s a good time that Charlie hasn’t organized, signed up for, or crashed without explanation. The last time I saw him was at the summer solstice festival, where he was bare-chested for the peach pie eating contest, letting the little old biddies in town put dollar bills in his waistband. Before that, it was Layla and Caleb’s housewarming. He brought strawberry shortcake Jell-O shots. I think he consumed the entire tray himself.

“It’s funny you think he needs a wedding for that sort of behavior.”

I watch as Charlie swings one of Luka’s aunts around the dance floor. His broad frame towers over everyone else, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to his forearms. His normally perfectly styled hair is slightly mussed in the back, likely from his attempt at some early nineties dance moves. He points at Dane and demands he join them. He is either trying to organize a complicated line dance or a revolt against the DJ. It’s not clear.

“He really took his duties seriously today,” Evie adds conversationally, leaning across Beckett for Harper’s abandoned cake. I notice that Harper doesn’t smack her hand away. “He brought Stella something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. All four. I think they both cried for forty-five minutes.”

Charlie walked Stella down the aisle during the ceremony, then slapped a flower crown on his head and stood as her maid of honor. He kept wiping his thumb beneath his left eye, pretending he wasn’t crying during the vows.

And now he’s doing the macarena in the middle of the dance floor, flower crown crooked on his dark head of hair, his jacket abandoned in one of the pine trees. He is…very fluid with his hips.

Midnight blue eyes travel the edges of the dance floor as he spins and bobs and weaves, likely looking for his next victim. I reach for the wine bottle just as his eyes lock on mine. His smile dive-bombs into a grin, laugh lines digging deep into his cheeks.

“NOVAAA,” he bellows across the field. “COME DANCE WITH ME.”

I bite my bottom lip. Charlie Milford is the biggest goddamn flirt on the planet. He is made up of equal parts charm, charisma, and misplaced confidence. The first couple of times I talked to him, I couldn’t figure him out.

But now I know that’s just how he is. He’s happiest when he’s making the people around him happy too. Or, in my case, blushing furiously and scowling at his big dumb face.

I have no idea why. He is not my type. He’s probably the furthest thing from my type. He works for some sort of wealth investment firm in New York and has an affinity for three-piece suits. Wristwatches that cost the same as the rent for my tiny studio. Color coded spreadsheets and terms like ideal fiscal environment. He buys truffle oil. He has pocket squares.

If there was ever a man to be more my opposite, it would be him.

But we’re friends. Sort of. We float in and out of each other’s lives at barbecues, parties, and trivia nights. My friends are his family and my family are his friends. It’s hard to separate the two in a town as tiny as ours, and he visits Stella at least twice a month. More and more often, now that I think about it. For someone that doesn’t actually live in Inglewild, he does seem to be here a lot.

He’s been helpful with my business stuff too. He walked me through the ten thousand pieces of licensing paperwork. He is the creator and originator of all the spreadsheets I’m using for my expenses. He answers every single text question I lob at him in the middle of the night, and then sends me a string of flirty, innuendo-laced messages in return.

He says he wants a tattoo in payment for all his consulting. A scorpion on his ass or a Pikachu on his bicep. He says he’s torn.

I spent way too long thinking about his ass after that. Specifically, his ass in those perfectly tailored Burberry pants he always seems to be wearing.

Beckett’s mouth tugs down in a fierce frown. “Why is Charlie screaming at you?”

Because he’s a ridiculous human being who would flirt with a wall if he could. Because he loves trying to get a reaction out of me. Because that’s what he does.

I watch as he knocks into someone while trying to throw an imaginary lasso in my direction. He ducks immediately to make sure they’re okay, distracted when a little girl in a bright pink dress tears through the dance floor. She bounces at his feet, and he drops his flower crown on her head, those damn lines by his eyes deepening with his smile when she squeals in glee and runs back to her parents.

His eyes flick up and hold mine. He lifts his hand and crooks two fingers, beckoning me forward.

“I think he wants to dance with me.”

“You’re not going, are you?”

I stand and rub my palms over the silky material of my dress. The wine has left me feeling warm and loose. Untethered and unconcerned. I could use a dance with a handsome man.

I could use more than a dance. I stare at the man in the middle of the dance floor, shimmying in place, thumbs hooked beneath his suspenders. Would Charlie be down for some meaningless stress relief in the form of bedroom shenanigans? He certainly seems like he would be.

Either way, Harper is right. I have been focusing almost exclusively on work. I deserve to cut loose. I deserve to have some fun.

I gather my skirt in my hand and begin making my way to the dance floor.

Charlie looks like a whole lot of fun.

NOVA PORTER IS walking toward me like she can’t decide if she wants to dance with me or tear me limb from limb.

Storm cloud eyes. Dark blond hair twisted in a low messy bun. A dress that was either made in my dreams or my nightmares. It shimmers as she walks, a soft gray material that looks like it would slip through my fingers like water. Plunging neckline and a skirt that flares out around her ankles. Bare feet. Pink cheeks. Tattoos all along her arms and down her shoulders.

She looks like she could eat me alive.

I fucking love it.

She stops six inches away from me and tips her chin up, a queen on her throne from half a foot below my chin. I grin, she scowls, and everything is as it’s always been between Nova and me.

I had my doubts that she’d actually come out on the dance floor. She hasn’t taken an ounce of my shit since I met her.

“Hey” is what slips out of my mouth as I stare down at her, like I haven’t spent the past seventeen minutes trying to coerce her out here with my entire arsenal of ridiculous behavior. I reach out and curl my hand around her hip, tugging her closer. “How’s it going?”

She falls into me with a huff, both of her hands flat against my chest. I get half of an eye roll and a quirk of her lips. “It’s going.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Better if this giant buffoon of a man would stop yelling across a tree field.”

“Hmm.” I pick up one of her hands and fold it in mine, taking care to trace my thumb over the delicate bouquet of flowers inked from her wrist to her knuckles. I arrange her into a proper dancing stance. “That sounds embarrassing.”

She gives me a droll look, unimpressed as ever.

“You’ve been bellowing my name across the dance floor, Charlie.”

“Wouldn’t have to bellow if you joined me sooner.” Closer like this, I can see the deep navy-blue halo that rings her irises. The one, single freckle under her left eye. “But let’s let bygones be bygones. The end result remains the same.”

“And what is that?”

“You, dancing with me. I didn’t even have to bring out the big guns.”

One eyebrow pops up. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“It involves a string of lights, the bottle of moonshine Clint spiked the apple cider with, and a very elaborate choreography routine.” I tip my head closer to hers. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll show you later.”

She snickers under her breath. I grin and spin us around.

Flirting has always been easy for me, but flirting with Nova is a goddamn delight. Her whole body comes alive under the attention, like a flower tilting toward the sun. I’m greedy for her reactions. For the way pink lights up her cheeks.

The song switches from a Spice Girls remix to something smooth and sultry, Duke Ellington’s horn echoing out the long notes to “Stardust.” It’s a deep swelling beat, slow and romantic.

Her entire face collapses in dismay.

I laugh, grip her hand, and spin her once, watching the material of her dress flare around her legs. I get a tease of ink on the smooth line of her calf before I tug her back to me and set us across the dance floor.

“This isn’t what I signed up for,” she grumbles up at me.

“What did you sign up for?”

“A perfectly respectable top hits pop song and four feet of distance between us.”

I tug her closer. My nose nudges her ear. “Liar,” I whisper.

She tilts her face until her nose brushes against mine, wide gray eyes blinking up at me. I think it’s the closest I’ve ever been to her. I like it a lot.

“Yeah,” she smiles, slow and teasing. “You’re right.”

A deep, rumbling groan rushes out of me. Only half of it is for show. “Say that again, but lick your lips a little when you do.”

She laughs. “Maybe later.”

“That sounds promising.” I adjust my grip on her and ease our steps into something slower. Something she can follow with her bare feet against the rugs. Her shoes are still probably sitting kicked to the side in the big red barn. I think she waited all of six minutes into the reception to slip them off.

She hesitates slightly behind the beat, attention focused almost entirely on her steps. I squeeze her hip and then her hand. I thought she was sitting on the side of the dance floor because of her moral opposition to fun. Not because she didn’t know how.

“Follow my feet with yours,” I tell her. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know you won’t,” she mumbles with her eyes cast down. It’s the bare minimum of compliments, but it’s enough to have me tugging her the slightest bit closer, every puff of her breath warm against the hollow of my throat. I like the way she feels beneath my hands. I like the way I feel with her against me. Like one of those flickering light bulbs I twisted around the trees last night at two in the morning, trying to make this day as special as Stella deserves.

A smile hooks the corner of her mouth as she falls into the rhythm I set, her face watching mine in consideration. I always get the feeling Nova wants to crack open my head and take a look around.

I’d probably let her and thank her for the pleasure.

“Did you bribe the DJ?”

“For what?”

“The song.”

“What about the song?”

“It switched to a slow song as soon as I came over here.”

I did bribe the DJ. Best twenty bucks I’ve ever spent. I would have given him my Rolex if he had the sense to barter. I clear my throat. “A gentleman never tells.”

She gives me a look.

“What?”

“You. A gentleman.” Her fingertips inch under one of my suspender straps. She toys with it and then snaps it against my chest.

All the blood in my body surges in one direction, and I have to force myself to keep moving around the dance floor. This is a development. Nova doesn’t typically flirt back. She entertains it, sure, then moves our conversation along to something mundane.

This is a first.

My eyes narrow. I’m suspicious. “I’ll have you know I can be very gentlemanly.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I’d be happy to demonstrate.”

She tucks herself closer to me and I get a hint of honeysuckle. Paper and fresh-spilled ink. “I’m sure you would.”

I don’t know what to do with her easy agreement. Conversations with Nova usually feel like a battlefield where she’s armed with the infinity stones and I’m wearing a bunny suit. Curious, I take a chance and inch my thumb up higher to where her dress dips in the back. I trace bare skin, and a hum catches in the back of her throat, her body lightly pressing into my touch.

I am bewildered.

Also, a little turned on.

Okay, a lot turned on.

“What’s going on with you?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

I glance pointedly at where her hand is still toying with my suspender strap. She smiles at me, all predator, and slips her hand from my chest. I should probably be afraid, but I’m too entranced by her fingers playing along the neckline of her dress. It’s like silver ink poured over her skin, clinging to her curves. The cut of it frames the tattoo between her breasts almost perfectly.

She traces it with one manicured finger. “A gentleman would probably tell me he likes my tattoo.”

I clear my throat and stare at it. I can’t seem to drag my eyes away. “I like all your tattoos.”

“But especially this one,” she encourages.

She leans back in the hold of my arms and glances at herself. She has a deep red rose between her breasts, the long stem dipping down her sternum.

I can’t stop looking at it.

I’d like to bite it. Very much.

I drag my attention back to her eyes. It takes me a full minute to figure out where we are in the conversation. Luckily for me, Nova is focused on our footwork and not the length it takes me to reply. “All right,” I snap. Explain yourself.”

She blinks up at me innocently. “Explain what?”

“Why are you flirting with me?”

A faint blush rises on her cheeks. I think I like that more than the rose between her pretty tits.

“You always flirt with me,” she points out.

“And you usually tell me to get lost,” I say with a laugh. “Take, for instance, about three minutes ago. When I had to yell across the dance floor for you.”

She huffs, puffs, and averts her eyes over my shoulder. I laugh again, delighted, the material of her skirt brushing against my suit pants with every shift of our feet. The music feels far away, nothing but me and Nova and the twinkling lights overhead. A flower petal in her hair and her hand in mine.

“Okay, so I was thinking—”

“Whoa.”

“Shut up. Let me finish.”

A thrum of heat pounds once, right at the base of my spine. I love an authoritative woman. My hands flex and release. “Okay.”

She takes a deep breath. “Well. You know I’ve been busy with the tattoo studio. It’s been brought to my attention that I could”—she scratches once at the back of her neck—“relax a little bit.”

She stares at me meaningfully. I stare back. If she wants me to infer something from that, she’s going to need to elaborate.

“Relaxation is great,” I try.

She gets a little line right between her eyebrows. A frown on her pretty lips.

“Do you need a referral for my acupuncturist?” I offer. “Because he’s really…great.” I swear I know more words than great.

She blinks at me. “No, Charlie. I’m not asking for your acupuncturist.”

“Massage therapy?”

“No.”

“Goat yoga?”

She sighs. “Shockingly, I am not asking about goat yoga.”

I swear to god I need a road map with this woman. I never have any idea what she’s thinking. “What are you asking about then?”

“I’m asking—” She exhales sharply and looks up at me with her bottom lip between her teeth. She lets it go and I barely track the indents left there before she releases in a rush. “I’m asking if you’ll come home with me.”

My face twists in confusion. “Sure, Nova. I can walk you home.”

“No, you idiot. I want you to come home with me.”

I stare at her blankly. “For snacks?”

She drops her head back and looks up at the night sky, pleading for help. I’m distracted by the line of her throat and the little black stars inked behind her ear. They slowly twist into flowers as the ink moves down her neck, delicate petals falling across the slope of her shoulder.

“Not for snacks,” she says, still gazing unseeingly at the sky. She tilts her head back and levels me with a look. I am being weighed and measured. Probably found wanting. “You know what? Forget I said anything.”

“I don’t even know what you said.”

“Good. Let’s leave it that way.”

“Nova.”

“Charlie.”

“Nova,” I laugh. “It’s hysterical you think I’m capable of letting this go. Tell me what you meant.”

The color on her cheeks burns darker. Her eyes flick over my shoulder and back. I tighten my grip on her hip, unwilling to have her run off through the trees. I can tell she’s considering it.

“I don’t know, Charlie,” she bites out. “What in the hell do you think it means when a woman asks you to come home with her?”

It takes me a second, but the words finally slot themselves together in my brain. My chest pinches, my mouth goes dry, and I stumble over my own feet. I almost send us head over ass into a Douglas fir. I try to correct us and almost dislocate her shoulder.

“Shit. Sorry. Shit.”

I catch us at the last moment and swing Nova around me, arm outstretched. I tug her back into my chest and try not to freak the fuck out.

I’m wheezing. Am I wheezing? What is that ringing noise? Am I having a stroke? I might be having a stroke. Maybe I fell over one of the twenty thousand boxes my sister keeps stacked haphazardly outside of her office and I’m in a hospital bed somewhere, hooked up to some really stellar drugs. I don’t know.

The pinch is a punch now, a faint ringing in my ears. The constant chatter in my brain has gone silent. Everything around us has too. I don’t know what to do with the quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever been so caught off guard in my life.

Nova is watching me with a faintly amused expression. “You doing okay over there?”

My mouth opens and nothing comes out. I close it, then open it again. “I, ah—I don’t think so.”

For all my flirting with Nova, she has never shown an ounce of interest in return. Not once. Most of my text messages get a vaguely apathetic smiley face back. I have categorized her under the unattainable category. Unavailable and uninterested.

Not that I’ve let that deter me, but…she wants me to take her home? Tonight? I’m no stranger to a fleeting romance with a woman, but Nova—I see her every time I’m down here. I know how she likes her tea and the kind of car she drives. I know the names of her sisters and her least favorite categories at trivia night.

It’s Nova.

I’m having trouble untangling my thoughts.

I’m also unreasonably, incredibly turned on. Half of my brain is trying to make sense of her request while the other half is running wild with the possibilities. I am the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of one-night-stand requests.

The longer I’m quiet, the more her expression slips. She drops my gaze to look back at our feet, her mouth set in a firm line. Her hand tightens against the back of my neck, and she puts two inches of space between us. I’d wince if I were capable of feeling a single thing above my belt.

“Stop making that face,” she seethes from between clenched teeth.

“What face?”

“The one you’re making.

“I have no idea what my face looks like, Nova. It’s my face.”

She huffs, leans back, and presses her fingertip to the corner of my lips. “You look like someone just shoved an entire lemon into your mouth. Fix it.”

“Sorry.” I try to school my features into something neutral, but everything feels numb. Like I’m underwater. I’m not entirely convinced I’m not having a medical event. “Is it better? Did I fix it?”

She shakes her head, sighs, and looks at the trees around her, her chin to her chest.

I’ve embarrassed her.

Worse, I think I’ve hurt her feelings.

“Nova.”

“Forget I said anything.”

I don’t mean to laugh, but I feel slightly hysterical. “It is burned into my brain.”

I’ll be hearing her murmur come home with me in her husky, sweet voice for the rest of my life.

She frowns. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“That makes one of us.”

She makes a frustrated noise under her breath. Finally, she meets my eyes again. “Charlie. Please. I don’t know what I was thinking. Let’s just…let’s just talk about expense reports instead.”

A faintly pained noise leaves the back of my throat. “I don’t know how you expect me to talk dirty to you on top of everything else.”

Amusement flickers across her face. “You’re ridiculous.”

I am ridiculous. I’m also confused.

“Nova,” I say gently. “Last week I told you that your hair looked nice and you told me to get a grip. I’m trying to figure out how we got from there to here.”

She gives me a long, considering look. Her eyes look darker tonight, like a dense fog in the middle of the woods. Lazy mornings beneath the sheets, rain pelting at the windows. Tea on the kettle and nothing but socks and bare skin.

“You know how we got here,” she says quietly. The start of a confession, I think.

“Humor me.”

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth again. Before I can even think about it, I reach up and curl my fingers around her jaw, my thumb popping it free. It feels imperative, a need burning through my blood. I rub once. Her mouth feels like silk. Her tongue barely touches the pad of my thumb and I almost send us back into that tree.

“That’s how we got here,” she explains, her voice still a low hush. “You’ve been flirting with me forever, Charlie. You’re surprised I want to flirt back?”

“I’m surprised you want me to take you home,” I murmur.

I return my hand to the small of her back, fingertips splayed wide, and then clear my throat three times in a row for absolutely no reason. She looks up at me from beneath golden-tipped lashes, a smile flirting with the corner of her pale pink lips.

I move us across the dance floor, painfully aware of every place our bodies touch. Thighs, hips, chest.

This dance I begged her for is now my personal hell.

I blow out a slow breath. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Enough to make me feel warm and fuzzy, but not enough to have me asking for things I don’t want.” She pats my chest once, a resigned look on her face. “It’s okay, Charlie. We’re going to finish this dance. I’m going to go find something else to drink. And we will never discuss this again.”

My hands tighten against her. I do not like that plan.

“Nova—”

“Please,” she whispers, eyes still carefully averted from mine. “Please, can we not?”

I give her a jerky nod, but my mind is still racing. My thoughts slip through like tiny grains of sand, slowly piling up until I feel overwhelmed. My brain is excellent at catastrophizing. I spin us around, one thought screaming louder than the rest.

“Are you going to find someone else?”

“Hmm?”

The song plays out its final slow notes, a lone trumpet echoing out over the field. I panic. I’m not ready to let her go yet.

I nudge us farther into the trees until shadows are clinging to our ankles.

“Are you going to find someone else?” I ask again.

She loosens her hold on me but stays in my grip. “For what? A drink?”

Now I’m the exasperated one. “To go home with you.”

“Ah.” Understanding lights her eyes and her lips twist to the side. “Maybe—”

“Don’t.” I cut her off. If I see her talking to Jimmy from the bar or Alex from the bookshop, I will lose my actual shit. I scratch my hand over the back of my head roughly and try to organize the scattered pieces of myself. I have no right to ask anything of her, I know, but the idea of her asking someone else what she just asked me has me borderline murderous.

God.

She broke my damn brain.

She crosses her arms over her chest and arches a single, imperious eyebrow. “Any particular reason why I should let you dictate what I do and don’t do?”

“I’m not trying to dictate anything. I’m just—” I drag one hand over my face and curl my hand around my jaw. I won’t be able to stand it if she sidles up to goddamn anyone else at this wedding. “You wouldn’t want to miss the cake,” I point out half-heartedly.

“The cake,” she repeats.

“Yes, the cake.”

“The cake that has been out for almost an hour now.”

“It’s going quick.” I wince. I sound like an asshole. An idiot asshole.

She scoffs and steps into my space. I try to back up, but I’m standing right in front of an evergreen. The needles scratch roughly at the backs of my arms. One rogue branch slaps me across the back of the head. It feels like immediate karmic retribution.

Nova digs one finger right into the center of my chest. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Color blazes in her cheeks. Anger this time, instead of embarrassment. She pokes me again. I am a bizarre combination of scared and turned on. I hold up both hands, palms up. “I know.”

“Especially after you said no.”

“What? I didn’t say no.”

“You said no.”

“I did not. You didn’t even let me answer the question.” I curl my hand around the finger digging into my chest and pull our hands to the side. “If you’d like an answer, ask me again.”

Her eyes flash in the fairy lights twinkling over our heads. She has a faint dusting of something sparkly on her cheeks. She looks like she’s glowing.

And glowering. She’s definitely glowering.

“Excuse me?”

“If you want me to take you home, I’m going to need you to ask me again.”

I’m not opposed to the idea of a hot and heavy night with Nova Porter. It sounds like something out of my dreams, actually. She’s gorgeous. Funny as hell. Sarcastic and sharp as a whip. I’ve thought about tumbling into bed with her more times than I can count. I’ve been flirting with her for months, for god’s sake.

But her request is out of left field. I had no idea Nova was even…looking at me like that. I’m used to being a good time. A fun deviation from normal patterns and behaviors. But with Nova, I want to be a choice. Not a whim. Not a regret.

So, yeah. I need her to ask me again.

She scoffs and wraps her arms around herself. “I’m already halfway to pretending this never happened.”

I step into her space, closer than when we were dancing. Her head tips back as she watches me with heavy eyes. She acts like she’s unaffected by me, but I’m on to her now. She’s been hiding a big ol’ secret beneath all that indifference. Little Miss Grump put all her cards on the table when she asked me to take her home.

“You’re not going to pretend it didn’t happen.” I take a chance and drag my knuckles down her arm, delighting in the goose bumps that rise in response. “You’re going to ask me again.”

“Oh yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah. I can be patient.” I let my hand drop to my side. “You don’t need to ask me tonight. You can think on it.”

A disbelieving laugh bursts out of her. “Oh, thank you very much.”

I smile because she’s not moving out of my space. She’s shifting closer, one of her hands curling beneath my suspender strap. She tugs on it, testing, and my hand finds her hip above the silky material of her dress.

“The only thing I’ll be thinking on—” She tips her face toward mine, her breath ghosting over the hollow of my throat. Fuck. She smells incredible. Something wild and dark and just out of reach. “Is the look on your face when you almost dragged us both into a spruce tree.”

“It was a Douglas fir,” I mutter back. I slip my hand up her side until I can curl my palm around the back of her neck. I’ve just unlocked a new level of flirtation with Nova Porter, and it’s my favorite yet. “And at least you’ll be thinking of me.”

“In your dreams,” she breathes.

“With alarming frequency and incredible detail,” I answer back.

She tries to hide her smile by ducking her chin, but I see the edges of it. Her eyes cast over my shoulder to the dance floor. Muted music drifts around us. The branches rustle in a slow-moving breeze. She shivers, and I’d offer her my jacket if I had it.

She’d probably light it on fire.

“I’m gonna—” She pulls herself out of my grip and nods toward the barn. Her smile is soft, her cheeks are pink, and I want to taste the edges of that quiet, rare amusement. “I’ll be seeing you, Charlie.”

I dig my hands into my pockets. “You sure will.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

A ghost of a laugh slips from between her lips, “unbelievable” whispered under her breath. She gives me one last look and then wanders in the opposite direction, shoulders back, chin up.

“Pretend this never happened,” she yells over her shoulder, a parting shot. Her hands grip the fabric of her skirt, her bare feet hopping along the path.

I grin at the smooth line of her shoulders, the slip of silver material over the curve of her ass.

“Highly unlikely,” I yell back.

NOVA LEAVES ME standing in front of a Douglas fir with a semi and a whole lot to think about. I have to drag both hands over my face and do some deep breathing exercises to make it out from behind that tree without embarrassing myself.

Not that it helps much. My brain feels like it’s full of wool and whatever perfume Nova was wearing.

I stroll my way over to Luka and Stella’s table and try not to look like I’m having an existential crisis. It was a bold move, telling her she needs to ask me again. But I stand by it. I’m not going to take Nova Porter home and hope for the best. This town is too important to me. I’m not going to risk my place in it because I decided to think with my downstairs brain.

By the time I make it to the table, Stella is smirking at me.

“What?”

She flicks me in the shoulder. “You know what.”

I cast a quick glance at Beckett at the other side of the table, but he’s busy with his wife in his lap, his chin on her shoulder and both of his arms wrapped around her waist. They’re probably talking about pet adoption or the best soil for planting carrots.

Not that I have anything to be worried about. Nova and I were just dancing. It doesn’t matter that she’s one of my best friend’s sisters. His youngest sister. His favorite sister. The one he is still kind of scarily protective over.

The one who asked me to take her home for a night of no-strings sex.

I force my gaze back to Stella. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I grab the bottle of champagne sitting in the middle of the table and take three long pulls. It’s too sweet and the bubbles almost give me a heart attack, but it’s a good distraction from what I really want to do. Which is scan the fields for Nova.

You know how we got here.

I need a cold shower and a stiff drink. Another cold shower after that.

I blow out a deep breath and ignore the faintly amused look on my sister’s face. What I need is a distraction and I have the perfect one. I reach into my back pocket and pull out a carefully folded envelope. “For you.”

She stares at it, face twisted in confusion. “What is it?”

“An envelope.”

She rolls her eyes.

“A wedding present,” I laugh.

She gives me a look. “You’ve given me a wedding present. You’ve given me like…six wedding presents.”

She lightly touches the small sapphires in her ears, one of the gifts I gave her before I walked her down the aisle. I did sort of go overboard, but I couldn’t help myself. Stella is my only sister—a sister I didn’t even know I had until well into adulthood. I grew up a lonely kid bursting with energy and no one to share it with. I asked my mother for a sibling relentlessly until I was old enough to realize what that wounded look in her eyes meant and I stopped asking.

And then, one day in my twenties, Stella appeared on our doorstep with a bunch of letters in her hand and the same exact eyes as me.

Turns out our dad was less than loyal to my mom. The first in a very long line of transgressions.

Thankfully Stella was receptive to the idea of a relationship, and we became fast friends. I like to think we’re both trying to make up for the missed years between us. She’s the sister I always wanted. Part of the family I never thought I’d have.

Six presents for her wedding doesn’t feel like enough, frankly. I want her to know how much it means to me to spend this day with her. To have a place on her Christmas tree farm and in the community she’s made for herself.

Luka appears behind her with a dopey-ass grin on his face and rests his chin on top of her head. He curls both arms around her shoulders and rocks them back and forth while simultaneously thrusting his left hand in my face. He wiggles his fingers, the glint of his new shiny gold ring reflecting in the lights overhead.

“Charlie,” he singsongs. “Do you know what this means?”

Stella pulls his arm back around her, their wedding bands clicking when she threads their fingers together.

I grin. “I think it means you two are married.”

“Yeah, we’re married.” His entire face lights up with the word, a grin tugging at his mouth. Either he’s been hitting the homemade moonshine that Gus snuck in, or he’s drunk on love. Luka is exactly the type of man I would have chosen for my sister, if I’d had any sort of say in that decision. Luke presses a kiss to the tip of Stella’s ear. “It also means you’re my brother now. Officially.”

My throat tightens. Maybe I’m an idiot, but the thought never crossed my mind in all the lead-up to today. I’ve been entirely focused on Stella, on being exactly what she needed.

“Oh my god,” I breathe out. Stella’s eyes grow wide with faint panic as my arms fall limply at my sides. A ragged exhale bursts out of me. I sound like a balloon that’s slowly losing air. A submarine going under. “Oh my god,” I say again.

Stella touches my arm. “Are you okay? Are you going to pass ou—oomph.”

She can’t talk when she’s squished between me and Luka, my arms wrapped around his shoulders. Stella got a husband, but I got a brother. A brother.

Luka pats me on the back, his laugh low. Stella wheezes somewhere in between us.

“This is the best,” I mumble into his jacket. “I take back what I said when you told me you weren’t moving back to the city.”

I called him a defector. Some other rude shit too. When he lived in New York, we’d have lunch together twice a week at a deli halfway between our offices. Luka was one of the few people in the city I actually enjoyed hanging out with. I’ve been sitting at that stupid counter by myself for the last couple of years like a sad sack.

“Yeah, well.” He leans back and claps me on the shoulder. Stella sucks in air and tries to untangle some of her hair that’s stuck in my suspender strap. “Maybe we can convince you to come down here more often.”

Like I need an excuse to spend more time in Inglewild. I like how I feel when I’m here. I like who I get to be. I already visit every other weekend, content to force everyone to deal with me on a regular basis. I’m pretty sure that’s why Stella built that guesthouse at the edge of the property line. She said it was for an Airbnb, but I know it’s for me.

“Thank you, that reminds me.” I hold up the envelope again and wave it between us. “Your wedding present.”

Luka’s face twists in confusion. “Didn’t you get us like six wedding presents?”

Stella tips her head back. “Thank you.”

I ignore them and force the envelope in Stella’s hands. I might have gotten them six wedding presents, but this is the one I’m most excited about. This is the one I’ve been plotting and planning over the last couple of months.

Stella tears open the envelope and peers at the piece of paper in her hand. “Are these plane tickets?” She brings the paper to her nose. “For tomorrow?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“To Italy?”

“Yes, that is what the ticket says.”

She drops the paper with a frown. Behind her, Luka mirrors it. It is…not the reaction I was expecting.

“I can’t go to Italy tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

She gestures around her at the farm. She’s making a point, but I’m distracted by Gus from the firehouse standing on a table, whipping his shirt over his head to a Backstreet Boys song. Mabel, his girlfriend, is sitting at one of the seats below him like absolutely nothing is amiss, calmly sipping a mug of cider. I guess she’s used to that sort of behavior from him.

Stella snaps in my face. “Because it’s September and I have to oversee the farm. It’s pumpkin season.”

“Ah, yes.” I roll my lips against my smile and shove my hands in my pockets. “Whatever will the pumpkins do without you?”

Her frown deepens. She looks like an angry cupcake in her pretty pink dress. I can’t take her seriously at all. “Charlie.”

I lower my chin and give her the same look she’s giving me. “Stella. You really weren’t planning for a honeymoon?”

“We were planning on Annapolis for the weekend,” Luka offers, taking the ticket out of Stella’s hand and studying it. “Why is the return date on these tickets a month from now?”

Stella gasps like I’ve just pulled a raccoon out of my pants and plopped it on top of her head. “A month? Charlie!”

“What?” I laugh.

“We can’t go to Italy for a month! That’s practically the start of the Christmas season! How much is this costing you?” She rips the ticket out of Luka’s hand and tosses it at me, pressing it into my chest. “Take it back. We do not accept.”

Luka straightens behind her, trying to grab the ticket. But she’s like an angry little spider monkey, trying to shove it down the front of my shirt. “Hold on a second, La La.”

“Yeah, La La. Listen to your husband,” I tell her. When her glare intensifies, I hold up both of my hands. “Don’t worry about how much it costs. Don’t worry about the farm. We have a plan.”

Her eyes narrow. “Who is we?”

“Beckett, Layla, and I talked.”

She crosses her arms. “So, there was collusion?”

“In the name of your honeymoon? Yes. Yes, there was collusion.” I make no move to take the ticket that she is dangling limply between us. Thank god it’s just a printout and the tickets are digital. That thing looks like it’s been to hell and back. “Layla packed both of your bags, and they’re waiting in the living room of your house. There’s a car coming to pick you up at the end of the night to take you to a hotel by the airport. Your flight leaves in the morning and everything has been taken care of. You just need to go where you’re told.”

Stella shakes her head back and forth, dark hair flying around her shoulders. “It’s too much.”

“It’s really not.”

I make a boatload of money. This is a drop in a very large bucket.

“It is. It’s way too much.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Charlie, I can never pay you back for any of this.”

I grab both of her hands with mine, plane tickets crumpled between us. “I don’t want you to pay me back. It’s a gift, Stella. You don’t repay those.” My throat tightens again and I have to clear it. My voice drops and I rub my thumbs over her knuckles. “Do you remember that day you came to the house? All those years ago?”

Her mom had just died and she wanted to know her birth father. So she looked him up and found our address, brought all the letters her mother wrote over the years but never sent. She didn’t know about me, didn’t know about my mom, and didn’t know our dad was a giant disappointment with a track record of horrendous decision-making.

“When you were walking out the door, you told me, ‘We can be family, if you want.’ Well, this is what family does. I know we’re both on a bit of a learning curve, but I have around twenty birthdays and Easter holidays and Christmases to make up for. Just…bundle it up together, okay? Let me do this for you.”

She sniffles. “You don’t give presents for Easter.”

“There are baskets, I’m told.”

“Easter baskets don’t have plane tickets in them.”

“Stella.”

She grips me harder. “You don’t have anything to make up for,” she whispers.

I shrug. She deserves to have a family member who’s not a disappointment. I want to be that for her. “Agree to disagree.”

“Charlie.”

“Stella, just say yes.” I exaggerate a head nod, my eyes wide. “Come on. It’s easy. Just say, ‘Yes, Charlie. I will go on this very nice vacation that I deserve with my husband.’ ”

She looks at Luka over her shoulder. He wipes a streak of eyeliner off her cheek. They have a silent conversation and then her body curves into his. She turns back to me with a wobbly smile. “Okay.”

“Let’s hear it.”

She blows out a noisy breath. “Yes, Charlie. I will go on this very nice vacation with my husband.”

“Ah.” Luka grins behind her. “I love that word.”

“What? Vacation?”

“No.” His smile melts into something satisfied. “Husband.”

She smiles at him, and I get that feeling I usually get when I spend too much time in their orbit. Like I’m intruding on something private. Like they’ve completely forgotten I’m two feet away from them. I avert my eyes to the dance floor. Gus is now trying to scale one of the trees. I can’t imagine that will end well.

Silver catches the corner of my eye and I see Nova, her back to me. I trace the strong column of her spine, the tease of dimples at the small of her back. The swell of her ass beneath the silver of her dress and the curve of her legs. She sways back and forth absentmindedly to the music, another strand of hair spinning loose from her bun and falling between her shoulder blades.

“I still have a question though.”

I jerk my eyes away from Nova. I guess Stella has emerged from her impromptu make-out session with her husband.

“What’s that?”

“Who is going to run the farm while I’m gone?” Her forehead scrunches up until she has that narrow line between her brows. The same one I get when I stare at my computer screen too long. “There’s the pumpkin patch and the bonfire and hayrides start up soon and—”

“Relax. Everything will be fine, okay? It will be taken care of.”

“How? Who is going to take over for me while I’m out of town for the month?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I slip my thumbs under my suspender straps and pull them away from my chest. I’m about to enter my farmer era. Cowboy Charlie, unlocked. “I am.”