Everett Bray raises a giant hand.

I fall silent. My eyes are burning.

This is so humiliating. Why the hell did I come here tonight?

“You’re not paying.” Harry’s uncle still looks pretty mad, his strong chest rising and falling. Those hazel eyes glare from beneath thick, dark eyebrows. “And you’re not disappearing tomorrow, Josie. Understood? If you need a job, I’ll help you find one, and until then, you’re staying. You’re safe here,” he adds, frowning down at the tiles like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact.

The breeze rattles the window, the sound echoing through the kitchen. I force myself to swallow past the lump in my throat. Once, twice. Three times.

I’ve never had anywhere I could go before. Never had a safe place to run. And even though this isn’t real—even though I forced this man’s hand, rather than earning his invitation—I can’t help the ache in my chest. The gratitude slowly loosening my limbs.

I’m here.

I’m with Everett Bray, and he’s exactly how I remembered.

And even though I’m bone-tired, I’m home.

* * *

Last time I stayed in Harry’s barn, I took the sofa bed. We were nineteen, too old to keep pretending to date, and besides, neither of us wanted to cross that line once we got old enough to really consider it.

Harry… well, Harry has his own reasons, I’m pretty sure. And me?

My reason unlocks the front door, his big shoulders tense under his flannel shirt. I’m close enough here to feel the heat of him seeping through his clothes. Close enough to smell the peppermint tang of his soap.

“You gonna be okay in here all alone?”

My cheeks glow hot enough to cook an egg at that question, but as I follow Harry’s uncle inside, I give myself a stern talking to.

He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s not an offer. Everett’s just asking if I’ll be alright in the creaky barn at night on my own, because let’s face it, I haven’t proven myself to be super steady and reliable tonight.

“I’m good,” I tell his shoulder blades, aiming for decisive and landing somewhere near wishful. “I’m not scared of the dark.”

Everett grunts, flicking on a standing lamp. Harry’s converted barn is smaller than the main one, so it’s basically an open plan cabin. There’s a stove top and a scrubbed kitchen table; cleared counter tops with a microwave and a kettle. A small refrigerator, a squashy sofa, and a coffee table.

Plus those bookshelves. Harry’s not a huge reader, truth be told, but I put a good dent in the rows and rows of worn paperbacks the last time I stayed.

“Have I ever mentioned how freaking cool it is that you built this?” My neck still aches as I gaze up at the ceiling beams. Even up there, where people hardly ever look, there are patterns carved into the wood. Every inch of this barn is a piece of art.