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Jean returned from a solo nature walk—which wasn’t nearly as relaxing as that kind of thing was supposed to be—the next afternoon to find a note from Hildy on her pillow.

Hope you’re ready for cowboy poetry night.

Ominous.

Or maybe that was the lingering bad mood from last night talking. So what if Charlie had repudiated her in public? Today was another day, full of fresh opportunities to make him regret his choices.

Time to weaponize some rhymes.

Jean’s wardrobe was better suited for an evening of Slutty Conceptual Art, so she chose the outfit most likely to torture Charlie: a neon mesh sheath over a sculptural fuchsia bra and high-waisted panties.

Was it subtle? No. But if ever there was a look that said, eat your heart out, triple-timer , this was it.

She checked her reflection one last time before leaving the wagon, snapping a selfie for posterity. Posting it was out of the question, but Jean imagined the caption she would use if she could.

Twang this, bitches.

When she reached the main house, Jean discovered that the far end of the Pikes’ spacious patio had been converted into a stage. The emcee—face barely visible behind a mustache that probably had its own zip code—stepped to the mike as she approached.

“Git yerselves right on up here now y’all, we’re about to have us a rootin’ tootin’ good time.”

A guitarist and a fiddler played a jaunty tune as the crowd drifted toward the stage. Jean glimpsed a head of dark hair zigzagging through the sea of bodies, which gave her a few seconds to compose herself before Charlie appeared.

“Eve.” He paused to catch his breath. “You look incredible.”

“I know.”

“Oh, um, good.” He blinked a few times, like he was trying to unscramble his thoughts. “I wanted to thank you. For last night.”

A tequila purveyor (Jean recognized him by the bolo tie) glanced curiously at them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She started to edge past Charlie.

“Do you have an identical twin?” he asked, sticking to her side.

“No.” Although that would have been a good angle. Next time, maybe. If she ever found herself in a situation remotely resembling this one.

“There might be dancing later,” he tried again.

It was her turn to frown at him. “You dance?”

“I guess there’s a caller who tells you the moves.”

“I’m just here for the rhymes,” she said, like she was some kind of cowboy poetry purist.

“But—”

Jean shushed him as the first performer took the stage.

Forty-five minutes later, they’d heard poems about cows and dogs and horses, pickup trucks and tractors, snowstorms, spring mud, sleeping under the stars, and sharing a bed with a “yeller-haired temptress.”

To Jean’s delight, Sergeant Cowboy opened the second act. “I call this ‘The Secret to a Good Life,’” he announced, before settling onto a stool behind the microphone.

“A man isn’t a man if he can’t man his own ship.

From mess halls to rest stops, I eat my vittles and grits.

Sometimes life gives you a lickin’—” he pointed to his scars.

“And you come back so mad you’re spittin’

But get yerself a dog and a nice warm fire

When winter storms blow, put on your good tires

Pour yourself a whiskey, or maybe some gin—

Tomorrow’s sun still comes a-risin’

Sure as shootin’.”

He busted out a harmonica, wailing a plaintive melody in time with the stomping of his boot.

“Talk about a man with layers,” Jean said when the applause died down. “I would kill to know the story behind those neck scars.”

“Hot coffee,” replied Charlie, who hadn’t left her side. She pretended not to be aware of his presence, as if she were serving up witty asides for her own amusement.

“I assumed it was a bar fight. Or a helicopter.”

“Like—the blades?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something with explosions.” Jean mimed a fireball expanding between her hands.

“The lid came off his takeout cup, and the coffee scalded him.”

Jean sucked a breath through her teeth. “That must have hurt. Not as much as a propeller, but still.”

“The silver lining is that he got a big settlement from the fast-food chain, and that’s how he started his trail riding business.”

“Huh.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Which body part I would sacrifice for fuck-you money.”

“Please don’t.” He grabbed for her, not seeming to realize he’d done it until she glanced at the place where his fingers wrapped around her arm. “I like your body the way it is,” Charlie whispered, letting go.

She smoothed a hand over her midsection, noticing how his eyes tracked the movement. “As an independently wealthy heiress, I don’t have to worry about selling my organs on the black market. But I appreciate your concern.”

“An heiress named Eve,” Charlie added, like he was cramming for a test.

“Exactly. And Eve has it all. She doesn’t need anyone or anything. Because nothing touches her.”

Charlie hesitated. “I don’t know how we got to talking about scars and organs and helicopters. And not needing people.”

Something you’d rather discuss? Your other girlfriends, perhaps? It wasn’t like Jean to censor herself, but she was in unfamiliar territory, in more than the literal sense.

On stage, the emcee tapped the microphone. “And now, cowpokes, things are going to get wilder than a tumbleweed in a windstorm. It’s open mic time. Come on up and show us what you got! It’s a hell of a lot easier than ridin’ a bronco.”

“Easy for him to say,” Charlie muttered.

“You’re not going to do it?”

“Me? Go up there?” He pointed from himself to the stage, in case she needed the visual aid.

“It’s your hoedown.”

“Not really mine ,” he started to protest, but she got there first.

“It will be. All of this is going to be yours.” Because Charlie had a number after his name like the rich boy he was, and would eventually inherit a whole freaking business and a fancy house, none of which he’d seen fit to mention even though they were sleeping together.

“I don’t think of it that way. It’s not who I am.”

Jean gave him her steeliest look.

“It’s one part,” he conceded. “But there are other parts of me that are more important. Those are the things I’d want someone to know. The real me is not… this.” Charlie gestured at the crowd.

With a sniff, Jean turned away, crossing her arms to show she wasn’t buying what he was selling. “I know some people have a fear of public speaking,” she relented, after a stony silence. “It’s one of the most common phobias. Right up there with claustrophobia.”

“I don’t have that.” Charlie sounded relieved to cross at least one off his list.

“Arachnophobia. Fear-of-heights-phobia.”

“Acrophobia,” he supplied. “Unless there are people who are afraid of being afraid of heights.”

Jean didn’t laugh. Her attention was fixed on Smithson, sauntering up to the microphone with his hands in his pockets. Charlie’s father cheered from the front row.

“My name is Smithson Barrett. My poem is called ‘Eye of the Tiger.’” Smithson cleared his throat directly into the microphone, triggering a shriek of feedback.

“ I have the eye of the tiger —” He paused, mouth slightly ajar. “ Two eyes . That’s what I got . Both of them are fierce fighters .”

“Is he still talking about his eyes?” Jean asked Charlie, not bothering to lower her voice. “What are they, like those betta fish that attack each other if you put them in the same bowl?”

When Smithson covered his mouth with both hands, Jean assumed he was copying Sergeant Cowboy’s harmonica solo.

“ Tikatikatika poom poom poom ,” he grunted into the mike.

“Is that beatboxing?” She could hardly believe her ears.

“ Tsss-t-t-t-tssss ,” Smithson vocalized, thrusting his hips. “ Chukka chukka wowwow .”

“He put a dance break in his cowboy poem,” Jean marveled. “Am I dead? Because this might be heaven.”

There was another interlude of chukkas and tssss , plus a few dvvvvts , before the next verse.

“ Hey now, I’m an all-star.

I make it rain.

Hire me and your company will go far.

My mad skillz save you money pain .”

He made a few more buzzing sounds, then collapsed into a bow.

“Wow,” Jean said over the polite applause. “I would have paid to see that, but no! He did it for free.” Jean shook her head. “Money pain.”

Charlie was staring at her face, like all he’d ever wanted out of life was to see her smile. She almost felt the teensiest bit warm inside, like one of her organs was turning to taffy. But just a small one, like the gallbladder. Maybe a kidney.

Was she really that easy? All he had to do was stand next to her on a summer evening, when he could have been talking to a dozen more important people, a good percentage of whom he was probably sleeping with, and suddenly she was all heart-eyes.

Somebody needed to throw a drink in Jean’s face, stat.

“Charlie.”

He jumped when Margaret tapped him on the shoulder, turning to face her with a guilty flush. “Oh, hello. Um. We were just watching the poetry—”

Margaret held up a hand before he could dig a deeper hole. “Your dad needs you.” And I’m not interested in your weak excuses , her expression added.

“Can I talk to him later?” Charlie asked.

“He wants you to do a poem.” She tipped her head at the stage. “About Pike’s.”

Charlie was shaking his head before she finished. “I couldn’t.”

“That’s what I told him, but he said it was already written and all you had to do was read it.” She spared Jean a millisecond of side-eye. “Excuse us.”

“I think he’ll be great,” Jean called after them. Charlie glanced back at her, probably trying to guess from her face whether she was being sincere or snide.

Ha! As if she knew.