It’s scorching hot — nearing ninety degrees and it’s not even noon yet. The sun beats down on me like a heating lamp on day-old french fries, leaving me crispy and dehydrated as I sit on the bench waiting for my bus. Now that Dotty’s back working part-time at The Nightingale, I actually have my first full day off since I arrived here in Nashville. I don’t intend to waste it.

A glance at my watch tells me the bus is now running twenty minutes behind schedule. I’d give up and walk the twelve miles if it weren’t so hot outside. Two hours in this heat, I’ll be dead on the side of the road before I make it halfway there. I uncross my sandaled feet so my thighs aren’t pressed together, then peel my sticky sundress away from my skin, fanning the material to create a breeze. It’s little help. My hair, still damp from my shower, is slowly starting to frizz. I should pull it up in a messy bun, but I want to look nice for her.

It’s been more than two years since she last saw me.

Another bead of sweat trickles from my hairline down my spine. At this rate, I’m going to look like I’m made of candle wax when I arrive. I shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, willing the bus to appear out of thin air and wishing for the hundredth time that I had access to a car. I know I probably could’ve begged Carly for a ride, but she’s working tonight and I’d hate to make her late for her shift if this takes longer than expected. My visit is far overdue. Partly because I haven’t had free time… but mostly because I’ve been avoiding going. I’ve been avoiding lots of things, lately.

Dark-haired, devil-tongued musicians included.

It’s been four days since I found Ryder sleeping at The Nightingale and in that time, I haven’t allowed myself to think about his eyes or his smile or the way he said my name. Much.

Kiddo, I repeat to myself like a safe-word whenever I start slipping into dangerous territory. He called me kiddo.

The thought is usually enough to pull me out of the spiral of obsession. To remind me that, no matter what I might feel, he’s clearly not interested. Guys who want to shove their tongues down your throat generally don’t think of you as a kiddo, unless they have some serious undiagnosed issues a trained psychiatric professional would be better suited to deal with. Somehow, I doubt that’s the problem here.

He’s just not that into you, Felicity.

Get over it.

I wish I could banish him completely from my head but he’s lodged himself too firmly to shake, like a fragment of an annoying Top 40 hit you hear once and can’t stop singing, even though you don’t know most of the words.

The woman waiting on the bench beside me climbs to her feet as an Uber pulls up at the curb.

“Giving up?” I ask, scrunching my nose.

“I checked the city public transport app — it says there are mechanical problems,” she tells me, tucking her phone back inside her purse. “Could be another hour before they get a bus down here, and I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss.”

“Mother fudger,” I curse lowly.

“Good luck!” She pulls open the door of the car service and climbs inside. A wave of cool air from the AC vents blasts out at me. I nearly moan. It’s gone as soon as the door closes, a faint wisp of relief snatched away by the oppressive heat.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

If I had a cellphone, I’d already have an Uber on the way. Relegated to more primitive options, I eye the payphone on the corner. I’m about to cave and use some of the hard-earned cash stashed away inside my bag to call for a taxi when a white utility van slows to a stop at the curb in front of my bench. It looks like something out of a B-rate PSA on child abduction.

I can’t see through the dark tinted glass, but there’s an unfamiliar logo on the side: a tree inside a lightbulb. The stenciled letters beneath the sticker read WOODS ELECTRIC in capitals. I rise to my feet as the passenger window rolls down. I don’t know who I’m expecting to see behind the wheel, but it’s certainly not Ryder.

Christ, the man is always popping up where I least expect him.

I suppose that’s part of his charm.

“Hey,” he calls, leaning over the center console.

“I think your line is actually, want some candy, little girl?” I shake my head at him. “Try again, creepy van guy.”

I see a flash of his grin in the semi-dark cab. “You need a ride somewhere?”

“No.”

“Come on, you look half-baked out there.”

“I’m fine.” I wipe sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “The bus will be here any minute.”

“Suit yourself.” He revs the engine lightly. “But you should know… I’ve got air conditioning. And a bag of fresh donuts.”

My chin jerks up stubbornly even though my mouth is filling with saliva. It’s been ages since I had anything sweet.

Ryder lifts the bag and shakes it tantalizingly.

“What kind of donuts?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Just get in the damn van, Felicity.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” I point out.

“Is it within state lines?”

I hesitate a beat, then nod.

“Good. Get in the van.”

My willpower fades away completely. I’m powerless in the face of donuts and cold air. Bending, I pick up my guitar, slide open the side door, and maneuver the case inside. The back of the van is full of all kinds of electrical equipment — cables and wires and techy gadgets I don’t recognize.

“Just toss it in anywhere,” Ryder says, half-turned to watch me.

I secure the guitar beside two crates of equipment, then climb into the passenger seat. As soon as the door slams closed, I lean back against the chilled cloth with a deep sigh. I feel more feverish than the time I ended up in the hospital with strep throat my junior year of high school. My internal temperature must be approaching triple digits.

I hear Ryder fiddling with the AC buttons, turning them to the maximum cold setting. I’m reveling in the rush of chilled air when something lands in my lap.

“Eat one of those. It’ll revitalize you.”

My eyes crack open. I eagerly pull a donut from the bag and take a bite. The honey glaze hits my tongue, so sweet it could send you straight into a diabetic coma. To be honest, after weeks of granola bars and cold convenience-store sandwiches, it tastes so dang good the coma would be worth it.

“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful. “This is amazing.”

Ryder chuckles lowly and shifts the van into gear. We drive half a block before we hit a red light and slow to a stop. He glances over as I polish off the last bite, my stomach rumbling with contentment.

“Go for it,” he says lightly, when he catches me eyeing the white paper bag again.

“Nah, I’m good. One’s my limit.”

His brows go up.

“Okay, two is my limit. But I’m not going to steal all your donuts.”

“They’re never as good the next day.” He shrugs. “I’m happy to share.”

I grab a second one with a bashful grin. “Thanks.”

“So, where to?”

“About twelve miles south on Route 65,” I say, still chewing. “The Elmwood Estates.”

He looks curious, but doesn’t ask any questions as he plugs our destination into his GPS. We make a U-turn at the next intersection, following signs for the interstate.

“I like the dress, by the way,” he says conversationally. “Never seen you in anything except your Nightingale uniform.”

“I forgot how nice it feels to wear an article of clothing that doesn’t expose my entire stomach and cannot, under any circumstances, be described as booty shorts.”

He laughs.

“Speaking of uniforms…” I eye the white WOODS ELECTRIC logo embroidered on his black polo shirt. “What’s with the van?”

“Oh, this? Only my glamorous day job.” His words are carefree, but there’s a touch of resentment in the lines around his eyes.

“I’m not interrupting your work, am I?” I ask, suddenly worried.

“Nah, I’m free and clear for the rest of the afternoon. I make my own hours, for the most part.”

“You must have an understanding boss.”

“Perks of working for the family business.” He drums a finger against the logo on his chest. “My dad’s a sound technician for a lot of the local bars, restaurants, and club venues. I started helping him out last summer after I graduated from Vandy.”

“You went to Vanderbilt?”

He shoots me a glance. “Any more surprise in your tone, I’d be insulted.”

“I just figured you were all about the music. You don’t strike me as the college type.”

“Honestly, I’m not the sound technician type either, but try telling that to my father. He’d like nothing more than to see me take the reins of his company in a few years, so he and my mother can retire to a golf community for other empty-nesters.”

“And I’m guessing you’re not on board with that plan.”

“You could say that.” He shakes his head. “I have nothing but respect for my father. He’s hardworking as hell, paid for my college education, built this business from scratch… but I’ve never wanted his life.”

“You want to be on stage,” I murmur.

He glances at me. “Bet you think that’s pretty stupid, huh?”

“No! Of course not.”

“I find that surprising, given your firm stance on never making an album of your own.”

I unleash a low harrumph noise. “Leave my life choices out of this.”

“If you explained why you’re so dead-set against performing, I might understand. I might even stop pestering you about it.”

“Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

“Maybe I have stage fright,” I hedge.

“You? Miss Attitude?” He laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you don’t know me all that well.”

“You know, if you ever talked about yourself, I’d know you better.”

“Only narcissists talk about themselves all the time.”

“I didn’t say all the time. I said ever.”

“Okay, so, I’m not an open book.”

“Felicity, you’re a closed book. Padlocked shut. Written in code, so in the off chance you do manage to pry it open, you need a cypher key to make sense of it all.”

I roll my eyes. “What do you want from me, a round of twenty questions?”

“Nah — two or three should suffice.” He pauses. “For now.”

“I’m already regretting this.”

“Too late. You agreed. No backing out and no lying.”

“Fine.”

“First question — and this is a real whopper, so brace yourself…” He drum-rolls his hands on the steering wheel.

“Suspense effectively built,” I say impatiently.

“Three favorites — cocktail, color, and position.” His eyes twinkle. “Sleeping position, that is.”

Color floods my cheeks. “Of all the things you could ask, that’s what you want to know? “

“I stand by my question.”

“Fine.” I throw up my hands. “I don’t have a favorite cocktail because I don’t drink alcohol. Never have before, never plan to in the future.”

“Intersting…”

“Shh.” I shoot him a glare. “My favorite color doesn’t have a name, or if it does, I don’t know it. But it’s that shade the sky turns right before a big storm, when it’s all brooding and dark. Not black or green or blue or purple, but somehow all of them at once.” I tilt my head. “Oh, and my favorite sleeping position is on my side, preferably with the light on and the door barricaded.”

His eyes get sharp, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. I’m not, but I don’t plan to let him in on that knowledge.

“See, this is the problem with you,” he mutters. “I think asking questions is going to clarify things, but it only inspires more questions.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Your favorite color is… gloom?” His head shakes. “Christ.”

I try to suppress a laugh, but I can’t. “What’s your favorite color? Oh, is it something cliché, like the color of the last pair of panties a girl left at your place?”

He snorts. “Glad to hear your opinion of me is so high, but actually, my favorite color is black.”

“Like your soul?”

“No, like yours.”

I laugh again. “Touché.”

“Next question.” He clears his throat. “Who’s the song about? The one you sang the other night.”

The laughter dies in my throat instantly. I glance out the window. “My parents.”

The van is totally silent.

“Ask me something else,” I plead after a moment.

“Okay.” His voice is gentle. “If someone handed you a million dollar record deal tomorrow, would you take it?”

“Is it so hard for you to believe I simply have no aspirations of becoming a star?”

“With a voice like yours? Yes.” His head tilts, considering me. “It’s easier for me to believe you’ve at least got a good reason for denying the world your talent.”

“What exactly constitutes a good reason in the Ryder Woods rule book?”

“I don’t know.” His voice gets serious as he changes lanes, passing a car going about ten miles per hour. “Maybe you’re keeping a low profile. Maybe you’re hiding from something or someone. I’m guessing your name in neon lights would make that pretty damn difficult.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face at his words. I don’t know if it was a lucky guess or pure intuition, but I’m suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded.

“Nothing nearly so dramatic,” I say drolly, trying to keep a brave face, though I’m almost certain he sees straight through it. “I’m just a classic introvert. Give me my guitar, a pen, and a blank sheet of paper over an arena full of screaming fans any day. I’m happier writing songs than I’d ever be playing them for strangers.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“Tried what?”

“Playing for strangers.” He glances at me. “Being up on stage — it’s a rush like you wouldn’t believe.”

I’m silent.

“Guess that’s my answer.” His eyes narrow. “How can you rule out ever singing in public if you’ve never even tried it? That’s like saying you hate space travel or peeing standing up. Until you’ve done it, you can’t make a true decision.”

“How did we even get on this topic?” I snap. “We were discussing your musical aspirations, not mine.”

“And…?”

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, Ryder, but you and I are very different people.”

“You mean in the chest region?” His eyes flicker away from the road and drop briefly to my cleavage. “Cause I consider those some of your finest assets, Felicity.”

I’d shove him if he wasn’t driving. I settle for a glare.

“Relax, I’m only messing with you.” His eyebrows waggle teasingly. “That’s what friends do.”

My heart squeezes and I look swiftly away, out the window. When I respond, my voice comes out far softer than usual. “Are we friends, now?”

There’s a marked pause. “I mean… I don’t share my donuts with just anybody…”

I laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Speaking of, will you pass me one?”

Reaching into the bag, I pull out a glazed donut and hand it over. I try not to drool too much as I watch him take a massive bite.

“You salivating over how handsome I am again?” he says around a mouthful, driving one-handed.

Ignoring him, I suck the sugary glaze off my fingertips, one by one. I hear a choked sound and glance over to find Ryder watching me, his eyes zeroed in on my index finger. It makes a wet popping noise as I yank it from between my lips.

“You salivating over how beautiful I am again?” I tease.

Two can play this game.

He laughs thinly and glances back at the road. I can’t help noticing his knuckles are white as he holds the steering wheel in an iron grip. I swallow hard and look out the window, pretending not to feel the sudden tension in the air between us.

Obviously, I’ve made him uncomfortable.

But he’s the one who started the flirty banter! I merely reciprocated.

Kiddo, I repeat inside my head, calling on my safe-word to remind me that, no matter how cute or charming he is… we’re friends. Barely. Certainly nothing more than that.

Kiddo.

Kiddo.

Kiddo.

I repeat it so many times, the word has lost all meaning by the time we turn off the road into the Elmwood Estates parking lot. He pulls into a free spot by the front door marked VISITORS and shuts off the engine.

“Thanks for the ride.” I avoid his eyes as my hand searches for the door handle. “And for the donuts.”

“Anytime.”

I hop out onto the pavement, sling my purse over my shoulder, and slam the door behind me. Before I can retrieve my guitar from the back, Ryder appears at my side. I blink in surprise — I didn’t even hear him leave the van.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, I can get it…” I trail off.

He pulls out my guitar case and passes it to me. My mouth goes dry when he suddenly whips off his shirt, exposing a muscular chest and a set of six pack abs unlike anything I’ve ever seen up close. His scent hits me in a wave — sweat and cigarette smoke and something distinctly male. It’s an intoxicating combination. I try to glance away, but my eyes seem to be superglued to his skin.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I stammer. My grip is so tight on the handle of my guitar case, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.

Ryder winks at me as he tosses his work polo into the back of the van. After a second of digging around, he locates a faded gray band t-shirt and yanks it over his head. I can’t make out any of the letters except LIVE AT THE RYMAN at the bottom.

He shuts the sliding door with a soft click and peers down at my face. I must look at little shellshocked, because he grins wider than I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t worry, I often have this effect on women. It’ll pass. Just give it a few minutes.” His voice drops to imitate the monotonous tone of a medical infomercial. “If your condition persists for longer than four hours, please consult your doctor.”

Blushing, I punch him lightly on the arm. “Shut up.”

He takes the guitar from my grip and glances down in anticipation. “Ready?”

“For…?”

“Whatever we came here to do.” He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I blast the same the look back at him. “You’re not coming in with me.”

“You’re going to make me wait in the car like a dog with the window cracked? It’s a hundred degrees out here! That’s just inhumane, Felicity.”

“You don’t have to wait for me! I’ll get home on my own.”

“How?”

“I’ll call a cab.”

He shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. I’m already here.”

“But…”

“Look… it’s an assisted living place, right?”

“Nursing home,” I murmur. “How’d you know.”

“There are about seventy handicap parking spots within a hundred-yard radius.”

I crack a smile. It’s true.

“I’m guessing there’s a waiting room.” He stares at me. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Great. I’ll wait in said waiting room. You do whatever it is you came here to do. And when you’re ready to leave, I’ll drive you home. Simple as that. I promise I won’t even ask you any questions about you covert ops mission here at the lovely Ashcroft.”

“Elmwood,” I correct lowly.

“Whatever.”

My heart is hammering against my ribs as I stare up at him. I can’t think of a thing to ask except, “Why?”

He looks confused. “Why what?”

“Why would you do this for me?”

“Friends, Felicity. Remember?”

What a strange concept, for a girl who’s never had any.

I suck in a sharp breath. “Well… what do you want in return?”

Something sad flashes through his eyes. His voice is almost solemn when he speaks. It’s strange to hear — he’s usually so buoyant with excitement and charisma.

“What do I want?” he echoes.

I nod.

He steps closer, invading my space. His eyes are intent.

“I want you to smile and mean it. I want you to laugh without thinking twice. I want you to feel like, even if it’s just for this one, single afternoon, you can lean on somebody without the rug getting yanked out from under you.” His eyes trace over my features with such weight, I feel them like a caress against my skin. “I want all sorts of things, Felicity.”

My breath hitches.

“Okay.”

His brows quirk up. “Okay?”

“You can come inside with me.”

* * *

We walk down the hallway in silence. The walls around us are papered in a cheerful floral yellow pattern, meant to inspire warmth and serenity.

All I feel is dread.

Coming here dredges up my past in a way I’m not entirely prepared for. I sneak a glance at Ryder. If someone had told me a few weeks ago that one day I’d find myself at a nursing home with him by my side, I’d have suggested they go see a neurologist about those hallucinations, STAT. He looks laughably out of place, but he’s being a pretty good sport considering the entire building reeks of disinfectant and pureed hamburger. True to his word, he would’ve waited out in the lobby, but I surprised us both by passing him a laminated visitor pass from the lady at the sign-in desk.

He’s already here; might as well stay for the show.

Sensing my gaze on his face, his eyes slide to mine. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

His lips twist, but he doesn’t push me.

We come to a stop in front of a room marked 102. My hand shakes a bit as I reach out and twist the knob. The door swings inward on silent hinges and I haul in a fortifying breath before I step inside. My gaze swings around, searching, but she’s not here.

Ryder whistles under his breath as he steps over the threshold. I glance at him, but he’s transfixed by all the paraphernalia on the walls. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still a rather impressive spread. Dozens of photos of the legendary Bethany Hayes, ranging all the way back to her glory days in the 1950s. My eyes flit over the black and white photograph of her hugging a young Patsy Cline, another of her sharing a mic with Loretta Lynn onstage at the Grand Ole Opry. I smile at a candid shot of her laughing with Elvis.

“She must be in the common room,” I murmur.

There’s no response from Ryder. He’s staring reverently at the autographed powder blue guitar mounted in a glass box above the bed.

“Is that…” His throat works. “Is that a vintage Gibson? Signed by Bethany Hayes?”

“Yep.”

His wide eyes find mine. “Where are we?”

“You’ll see in a minute. Come on.”

“Felicity—”

Ignoring his protests, I head back out into the hallway. It’s been two years since I last visited, but my vague memories tell me to turn left. A smile stretches across my face when I round a bend and hear her voice floating out of the French doors, accompanied by the faint refrains of a piano.

I hover in the doorway, watching her. Ryder stands so close, I can feel his chest brushing up against my back each time he breathes. His sense of awe is tangible.

I understand — it’s not every day you get to hear Bethany Hayes sing.

Her voice is mostly gone, now, warbling and frail. But she’s still a sight to see, even with an afghan thrown across her knees and her hair shock-white after ninety-odd years of age. She’s wearing her infamous coat of bright red lipstick. I’ve never seen her without it.

“That’s Bethany Hayes,” Ryder murmurs.

“Yeah,” I agree softly.

“Felicity.”

I look up. “What?”

“Why are we here?” He jerks his chin toward the piano. “You do realize, that woman is one of the most famous country singers to ever grace the stage. A Country Music Hall of Fame member. A two time Grammy winner.”

“Maybe to you.” My lips twist. “But I generally just think of her as my grandmother.”