The next morning, I woke up and left Meg basically dying in my bed while I ran the errands. When I came back from the store late that morning, the door to Daddy’s shop was opened, so I assumed he and Bo where out there with the “unfortunate soul.”

I put the milk and orange juice in the fridge, stuffed the bread inside the wooden bread box, then went straight to my room with some Tylenol and water for Meg.

The second the door creaked open, she groaned and rolled over. “This Pepto Bismol pink is making me more hungover.”

“No, that’s the vodka.”

“Ugh. Don’t even talk about vodka.”

“Here,” I said, handing her the Tylenol and water.

She propped herself up on her elbows. Last night’s makeup was smeared over her face like poorly applied war paint, and it looked like a few birds had made nests in her hair. “Wow,” I said, “you look lovely.”

She swallowed the medicine, glanced across at my dresser mirror, then glared at me. “Here I am dying in your bed and you look all chipper and”—she waved her hand around before rubbing at her eye—“not dead. And it feels like I have sandpaper in my eye.”

“It’s the fifteen coats of mascara and fibers you slept in last night.” I stepped into the hall. “I’ll grab you one of my makeup wipes.”

Just when I reached for the bathroom door, it pulled open. Steam billowed out, and I was suddenly staring at the defined chest of a man with nothing but a damp, white towel wrapped around his waist. “Well…damn,” he said.

Every ounce of blood drained to my feet at the slight smirk that played at Noah’s lips. Our eyes locked and my heart hammered against my ribs because what in the hell was he doing in my house, naked?

“I…uh…” I swallowed. He subtly narrowed his eyes, probably stifling a laugh at how red my cheeks must have been. “Uh…” I watched the water trickling from his messy, damp hair. “Why are you—why are you in my house?” I blurted.

“Ah... I’m guessing John’s your dad?” he said.

“Yes, and”—I was still watching the droplets of water run down his face—“why are you in my house?” I repeated.

“I’m uh…” He tugged at the towel, I guess to keep it from slipping. God, please don’t let it slip. “Helping your dad out.”

He’s the troubled soul? Of course he is. Deep breath, Hannah. Deep, deep breath. I nodded. There was a moment of silence. A moment where we just looked at each other. I couldn’t help but think how bottomless his eyes seemed, like they were full of promises he’d never come through on—but the thought that he just may was almost enough. I’m pretty sure that’s why so many girls fell in love with him.

“And the towel?” I pointed.

“Well,” he finally said, “I thought it’d be rude to walk out of the bathroom naked.”

He bent down to pick up a pile of clothes set by the door, then held them up with a grin. His lips were all I could focus on, wondering if he threaded his fingers through your hair when he kissed you. “Yeah, but why are you—”

“Come on, country girl, don’t you know the potential hazards of working a farm?”

Like an idiot, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

“Your brother ran over a pile of cow shit. Splattered it all over me.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.”

“Yeah, real lovely.”

There was another awkward pause and he lifted a brow, thumbing inside the steam-filled bathroom. “Did you need something?”

“Huh? Oh... um... just...”

He pushed the door open all the way and stepped to the side. I quickly moved into the bathroom, snagged the pack of makeup wipes, and rushed back into the hallway, my cheeks heating.

“Well.” He braced both arms in the doorway and dropped his chin to his chest. Every muscle tensed and popped. The myriad of tattoos that stretched over his muscular arms were hard not to stare at. “It was nice to see you again, Hannah.” He dragged out my name like a note to a sad love song. My entire body tingled. I wanted to stand there and stare at him, touch him… What the crap is wrong with me?

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “You too.” When I turned around, the bathroom door clicked shut. The second I got back inside my room, I took a breath, wondering why in the world it had to be him that my daddy hired. Stuff like that never ended well. I felt about as ridiculous as Alice In Wonderland, just because a bottle’s not marked poison doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to drink it.

I tossed the makeup wipes at Meg and she lifted a curious brow. “Was that a guy in the hall?”

“Yep.”

“The new troubled soul?” She grinned as she pulled a wipe from the pouch and began scrubbing over her face.

“Yep... Noah Greyson.”

Her jaw hung open and she stopped wiping her makeup off, leaving her entire cheek pretty much black. “What?”

“The guy in the hall was Noah. In a towel.”

“Soooo...” she shrugged. “Is he moving in or something? Has your dad finally just lost it?”

“No.”

“Jesus, your dad has no idea what he’s just done.” She swiped the wipe over her face again before glancing down at it and wrinkling her nose. “He has just invited the devil into his home.”

“Oh, for the love... Meg, you are overreacting.”

“That’s your one-way ticket to hell. I’m telling you. He’s pretty, and a sweet talker, and he’ll make you weak, and then I’ll have to kill him, so I guess he’s really our one-way ticket to hell.”

“So now he’s the devil?” I asked. Any man who was going to lead all of mankind to hell was going to need a good smile and dimples…

“Maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Noah’s probably more like the Pied Piper of Panties.” She balled the face wipe in her fist, then tossed it to the floor. “God, it’s going to be Mr. Moses all over again.”

“What?” She’s lost her mind. Mr. Moses was the one-eyed Tabby we took in when I was a kid. He was vicious and basically had a vendetta against chipmunks.

“I know you, Hannah. You used to go around and find all the chipmunks Mr. Moses would start to eat and then just leave to die, and you’d want to fix them all up.”

I deadpanned her. “You’re comparing Noah to the cat with the glass eye?”

“No.” She glared at me. “The chipmunks. Noah is the chipmunk here.” Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “You like broken shit, Hannah, and that boy is broken. You can’t fix him.”

“You don’t fix people, Meg—”

“Well, whatever, just as long as you don’t try to fix him. You’ll end up broken in the process.”

Meg left an hour later, begrudgingly. I told her I’d be happy to let her take my shift if she wanted and she flipped me the bird.

After I tied my hair in a messy bun, I grabbed the electric piano from my closet and carted it down the hall. From the hallway, I could hear the theme music to Jeopardy coming from Momma’s room. She smiled when I pushed the door open. “Hey, baby.” Her gaze fell to the keyboard and her grin deepened, her eyes glistening with tears.

“I thought you might like some music.” I placed the piano on the dresser and she muted the television.

“I would love to listen to some music.”

I flipped the switch and the little red light glowed. “I’ll play your favorite,” I said, placing my fingers over the keys. The soft melody of “What A Wonderful Life” filled the room. I glanced up at the mirror and saw Momma with her eyes closed, her head slowly bobbing along with the tune. After the first line, she quietly sang the words, and my throat tightened on a silent sob.

Growing up, I sat next to Momma at the piano while she played. When I turned six, she started sending me to lessons. She told me she enjoyed listening to me play more than she enjoyed playing herself. She’d sit in formal living room with me while I practiced. She’d listen, providing encouragement when I’d grow frustrated because I couldn’t get a chord. She’d applaud when I finished, and when I got the song down just right, she’d sit and sing the lyrics. The piano was our thing, I guess. I closed my eyes, my fingers still tapping over the keys as I listened to her sing. Even with her voice hoarse, it was still beautiful, but the longer I played and the more she sang, the words hit me. Hard.

I fought the tears pricking my eyes. I fought the sob lodged in my throat, and when the last notes played, I took a deep breath and forced it all down because I couldn’t make her feel guilty.

“Thank you, Hannah,” she whispered. When I turned around, she was wiping tears from her face.

“Please don’t cry, Momma.” I went to the side of the bed and wrapped my arms around her. “Please…”

“I never wanted to leave you and Bo.” She choked back a breath. “Not this soon.”

“Don’t talk like that.” I pulled back and swept a tendril of her salt and pepper hair from her face. “You aren’t going anywhere.” Guilt plucked at my heart because I was lying to her. There may not have been much I could do about her physical suffering, but I could lessen the pain to her soul. “If you get on that clinical trial up in Birmingham, you’ll be better in no time.”

A sympathetic smile slowly worked over her lips. “Okay, baby.” And there she was, trying to make me feel better. She rubbed her hand over my cheek. “You better get to work.”

I kissed her forehead. “I love you, Momma.”

“And Lord knows I love you.”

I walked out of her room. Out of the house. The second I got inside the solitude of my car, I completely broke down. I cried until I was gasping for air. I cried until my throat burned, and then I cleaned my face up and put the car in drive, because no matter how my world may be crumbling, life went on.