I force down the hard knot in my throat. “I need to be focused,” I say. “I owe that to Dusty.”

When I’m distracted, I miss things. When I miss things, bad things happen.

Charlie studies me for a long moment. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I say.

His brow slightly lifts, his eyes reading the obvious lie. It doesn’t matter. Want is not a good way to make decisions.

“And besides,” I add, “things are complicated for you anyway, right?”

After a beat, he sighs. “More every second.”

Still, neither of us moves. We’re in a silent standoff, waiting to see if the dam holds, the pressure building between us, my cells all still vibrating under his gaze.

Charlie looks away first. He rubs the side of his jaw. “You’re right. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to accept this can’t be anything.” He snatches my dress off the rock and holds it out.

My stomach sinks, but I accept the dress. “Thanks.”

Without looking at me, he says dryly, “What are colleagues for?”

OceanofPDF.com

16

I CRAWL OUT OF bed at nine, my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a half-wrecked boat lost at sea. Apparently I drank enough to poison myself, without even getting past tipsy. One of the many ways that being thirty-two absolutely rules.

Libby’s already moving around downstairs, humming to herself. I’m not surprised—despite her panicky messages last night, she was already fast asleep and loudly snoring by the time I got home. Dusty had finally called me back, and I’d paced, damp, through the meadow for an hour, convincing her Part Two of Frigid couldn’t possibly be as bad as she was convinced it was. Bleary-eyed, I check my phone, and sure enough, the new pages are waiting in my inbox.

I am not ready for that. After pulling on leggings and a sports bra, I stagger outside, rubbing heat into my arms as I cross the meadow. I shamble through the woods, clutching my stomach, until the nausea eases enough to jog.

Okay, I think. This is going all right. It’s more of a positive affirmation than an observation. I follow the sloping path through the woods to the fence and make it three more paces before This is going all right becomes Oh, god, no. I pitch over my thighs and vomit into the mud just as a voice cuts through the morning: “You okay, ma’am?”

I whirl toward the fence, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

The blond demigod is leaning against the far side of the fence, no more than four feet away.

Of course he is.

“Fine,” I force out. I clear my throat and grimace at the taste. “Just drank a bathtub’s worth of alcohol last night.”

He laughs. It’s a great laugh. Probably his scream of terror is even fairly pleasant. “I’ve been there.”

Wow, he’s tall.

“I’m Shepherd,” he says.

“Like the . . . job?” I ask.

“And my family owns the stable,” he says. “Go ahead and laugh.”

“I would never,” I say. “I have a terrible sense of humor.” I start to stretch out my hand, then remember where it’s recently been (vomit) and drop it. “I’m Nora.”

He laughs again, a clear silver-bell sound. “You staying at Goode’s Lily?”

I nod. “My sister and I are visiting from New York.”

“Ah, big-city folk,” he jokes, eyes sparkling.

“I know, we’re the worst,” I play along. “But maybe Sunshine Falls will convert us.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “It’ll certainly do that.”

“Are you from here originally?”

“All my life,” he says, “minus a short stint in Chicago.”

“City life wasn’t for you?” I guess.

His huge shoulders lift. “Northern winters certainly weren’t.”

“Sure,” I say. I’m personally pro-season—but it’s a familiar complaint.

People basically leave New York because they’re cold, claustrophobic, tired, or financially overwhelmed. Over the years, most of my college friends frittered off to Midwestern cities that are less expensive or suburbs with huge lawns and white picket fences, or else left in one of the mass exoduses to L.A. that comes every few winters.

There are easier places to live, but New York’s a city filled with hungry people, their shared want a thrumming energy.

Shepherd pats the fence. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your . . .” I swear he glances toward my vomit pile. “. . . run,” he finishes diplomatically, turning to go. “But if you need a tour guide while you’re here, Nora from New York, I’m happy to help.”

I call after him. “How should I . . . get ahold of you?”

He looks back, grinning. “It’s a small town. We’ll run into each other.”

I take it as the world’s most gentle brush-off right up until the second he shoots me a wink, the first hot wink I’ve ever seen in real life.

Ever since I finished recounting what happened, Libby’s just been staring at me.

“What’s happening inside your brain right now?” I ask.

“I’m trying to decide whether to be impressed you went skinny-dipping, annoyed you went with Charlie, or just grovelingly sorry for setting you up on such a terrible date.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say. “I’m sure if I’d cut off the bottom six inches of my legs at the table, he would’ve been perfectly pleasant.”

“I’m so sorry, Sissy,” she cries. “I swear he seemed normal in his messages.”

“Don’t blame Blake. I’m the one with this giant flesh sack.”

“Seriously, what an asshole!” Libby shakes her head. “God, I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about number five. It was a bad idea.”

“No!” I say quickly.

“No?” She seems confused.

After last night, I would love to throw the towel in, but there’s also Charlie’s apartment to think about. If I back out of our deal now, then everything that happened was for nothing. At least this way, something good can come out of it.

“I’m gonna stick with it,” I say. “I mean, we have a checklist.”

“Really?” Libby claps her hands together, beaming. “That’s great! I’m so proud of you, Sissy, getting out of your shell—which reminds me! I spoke to Sally about number twelve, and she’d love help sprucing up Goode Books.”

“When did you even talk to her?” I say.

“We’ve exchanged a few emails,” she says with a shrug. “Did you know that she painted the mural in the children’s section of the shop?”

Considering Libby bakes her gluten-intolerant mail carrier a special pie every December, I shouldn’t be surprised she’s also having in-depth email correspondence with our Airbnb host.

My pulse spikes at the buzz of my phone. Mercifully, the message isn’t from Charlie.

It’s from Brendan. Which is rare. When you scroll through our thread, it’s a riveting back-and-forth of Happy birthday! interspersed with cute pictures of Bea and Tala.

Hi, Nora. Hope the trip is going well. Is Libby all right?

“What’s this about?” I hold my phone out, and she leans forward to read, her lips tightening to a purse.

“Tell him I’ll call him later.”

“Yes, ma’am, and which calls do you want forwarded to your office?”