The way his eyes warmed with approval affected me way too much. “It’s old thinking. Whether you’re baking or cooking, most ingredients are better to use at room temperature. And that includes ingredients we’re taught should always be in the fridge to prevent bacteria or everything going bad. Eggs, milk, butter, meat. You name it. One day on the counter won’t make a difference. Not in today’s day and age. Our homes are cleaner, most of us have air conditioning—hygiene is generally better.”

I shoulda known that. Nonna always brought out the ingredients in the morning if she was baking later in the afternoon.

I expected to be hit by a chill when we stepped out onto the patio, but I was greeted by the opposite. The afternoon sun blanketed the area in warmth, and it wasn’t very humid at all. It was perfect.

The big dining area near the grill was probably where we’d eat tonight, but right now, I had my eyes set on the cushy loungers around the pool. There were a lot of them too, at least a dozen. Hadn’t King said they weren’t used to entertaining? How big was his sister’s family? Or maybe when you were loaded, you simply had to have multiples of something. The pool belonged in a hotel, not someone’s backyard.

There was a pool house, to boot.

Out on the hills, I spied horses. And a barn, far away on the horizon.

Trees here and there, from massive heavy oaks to smaller ones that looked like they’d bear fruit in the summer. Apple, maybe.

King slumped down in a lounger with a long sigh of contentment, and I set my beer on the side table between us before I got comfortable too.

I was a long way from New York…

Jesus Christ, this was nice. The faint smell of manure didn’t even bother me. The air was already ten times cleaner than I was used to. And I could quite fucking happily sleep in one of these loungers.

“You didn’t leave New York today, did you?” King murmured.

“Last night,” I replied. “Stopped somewhere in Virginia around midnight.”

He hummed and took a swig of his beer. “I like New York. I lived there for a while in the eighties.”

I’d never really reflected on my feelings about New York, other than…it was home. It was home, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. But this place, a ranch in Tennessee—I had no words. It was peaceful and stunning.

“The eighties were good,” I mused. “Not a care in the world. I was just a punk scraping together money to upgrade my guitar.”

King chuckled drowsily. “I’m surrounded by children. In the eighties, I was bustin’ my rear deliverin’ food to businessmen in skyscrapers and doing catering at upstate weddings.”