The last part booms out, startling a pigeon into flight.

I cast a hasty glance around, noting the people watching—and God help us if anyone recognizes Rye and starts recording—then turn and walk away. If Rye wants to follow, he will. If not, screw him.

He follows, easily keeping up with my quick steps.

“I was not giggling,” I grind out. “But that’s beside the point. Why don’t we start with why you think it’s okay to have a go at me like some irate, neanderthal boyfriend. Because that is bullshit, Rye.”

“What, am I supposed to grin and bear it? Because that is bullshit.” He flushes red. “Are you fucking him?

“Are you kidding me? I can’t believe you have the nerve to even suggest it. Hell. And to think I was actually happy to see you.”

At that he blanches, then takes a step closer to me. But I hold up a hand to ward him off, still too pissed for contact.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a rasp. “Okay? I shouldn’t have…fuck. All right, you wouldn’t do that. Of course, you wouldn’t. But…” He lifts his arms in a helpless gesture then flops them back down, defeated. “Do you want to? Is that it?”

The hurt in Rye’s expression levels me. I instantly feel terrible. I know now what cheating means to Rye and how badly it unsettles him. And hadn’t I jumped to horrible conclusions about him with Isabella?

“No, Rye. No. Not even a little.”

His nod is tight and quick, but the line of his jaw bunches stubbornly.

“I’m with you now,” I say. “I promised my fidelity, and I meant it.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Instead, he frowns at his feet. “I saw you with him and… Shit, Bren. You two flirted at Stella’s party, now you’re making plans to visit him in LA. I reacted. Badly.” His gaze collides with mine. “I’m sorry, Berry.”

Now that I’ve calmed, when I view the situation through his eyes, I know that if I were faced with the same set of circumstances, I would flip out. It isn’t easy to admit, but I would be jealous. On the heels of that comes the strange dizziness of knowing he’s jealous.

He’s jealous.

It should turn me off. It doesn’t.

With a sigh, I walk over to the trash and chuck my cold coffee. There’s an empty bench facing the Bow Bridge, and I head for it, knowing Rye will follow. At the very least, we’ll have a little more privacy.

He sits next to me, close enough that I feel his warmth, but not touching.

“He offered me a job, Rye.”

I feel the impact my words have on him, the shock, the way it upsets him, and the way he rallies to lock it down. When he speaks, his voice is gravel. “You want to leave us?”

Leave us. Leave him.

“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. But I’m not…”

When I trail off, he speaks again, softly. “You’re not happy?”

God, this is horrible. I feel small and petty and disloyal.

“Rye, your music is your passion. It’s something that is part of you. But this is a job for me. One that I’ve always loved and been proud of, but it’s still a job. And lately…” I take an unsteady breath. “I feel…tired, uninspired. Off.”

He turns my way, his gaze on my face as if he’s seeing me anew. “I get it, Bren. The well has gone dry for me before. It isn’t fun.”

“Maybe that’s all it is,” I say, keeping my focus on the lake in front of us.

“But maybe it isn’t,” he says, knowing I’m thinking it. “Maybe a change is what you need?”

He says it tentatively, as though it kills him to voice the truth out loud, but he will accept it because my happiness is important to him. Horrifyingly, tears prickle against my lids, and I have to blink rapidly to clear them.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

His big hand engulfs mine. His strong, rough, messed-up hand. He holds on to me like I’m precious, like I matter. He holds on to me as though he knows how much I need it.

The blunt tip of his thumb runs along the sensitive skin of my palm. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few days. I wasn’t looking, you know. His offer came out of the blue. Surprised me, really. But his firm is legendary. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to at least take a look.”

Rye holds my hand more securely. “Bren. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

I close my mouth abruptly, the lump in my throat growing. Ducking my head, I focus on our intertwined hands. It is surreal to sit on a park bench, holding Rye Peterson’s hand, but, in this moment, it feels like the safest place in the world. He’s not judging me; he’s giving me exactly what I need. He keeps doing that. How will I ever be able to let him go?

“Maybe I have to explain it to myself.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Somehow, he’s moved closer. Our shoulders brush, and I lean into him. I’m not leaning on him. I’m just…resting with him for a minute.

Rye’s thumb keeps sweeping across my palm, over the tips of my fingers.

“I’m afraid.” I close my eyes against the confession.

Rye pauses, his body lifting on a breath. “Of what?”

Don’t say it. Don’t let yourself fall to weakness.

The words come anyway. “I’m afraid I’ll like it there.”

His grip tightens, as warm and secure as a hug. “No matter where you go, you will never be alone. Do you understand?”

I’m going to cry. Right here on a park bench with Rye Peterson holding my hand. My throat works as I swallow convulsively. “Yes.”

A tender squeeze of my hand is his reply. Two little girls in matching red coats run across the bridge, followed by a harried woman pushing an empty double stroller.

“I have a house in LA,” Rye says. “Up in the hills.”

“When did you buy that?” Our voices are quiet, easy as though we’re not talking about the prospect of me leaving everything I know and love behind.

“Last year. I had it renovated.” He turns his head. Lines of strain still bracket his eyes, but they’re clear and steady on me. “Stay there. It’ll be more comfortable than a hotel.”

“I’m used to hotels.”

The wide curve of his lips kicks up on one end. “Maybe I just want to know what you think of my house.”

His cautious yet excited tone catches my attention.

“What are you not telling me?”

He gives a careless shrug. A breeze picks up the ends of his bronze hair and lifts it back from his brow, and he squints into the sunlight as he looks over the lake. “It’s just something I’m working on. I haven’t told anyone else about it. You can see it if you stay there.”

Another gift. He keeps giving me these pieces of himself. If he isn’t careful, I’ll soon have all of him.

“I’ll stay at your house.”

He keeps his gaze on the lake, but he can’t hide the pleased glint in his eyes. “Cool.”

Without thinking about it, I lean in and give him a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Ryland.”

He inhales swiftly as though not expecting a kiss but then looks down at me. “I want to kiss you,” he says, low, urgent.