Alone in the Cadillac, I wonder if I shouldn’t have fought the urge to ask.

The next day, I’ve just scarfed down a tuna sandwich for lunch when someone knocks at the door.

Really? Again?

I’ve already received two deliveries from Crey today. First, Delores Maynard’s grandson, Leander, dropped by with the other journals that Crey asked her to make for me. After I fished out a twenty to tip him, I almost swooned at the beautiful colors.

After that came Ben from Brews and Balls.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him.

He hefted a black-and-pink bowling bag up with the hand not wrapped around his cane. “Special delivery from your man.”

“What the hell?” I took the bag from him and unzipped it. A hot-pink glitter-swirled bowling ball with my name engraved on it sat inside, along with black-and-pink bowling shoes.

What in the world?

“Okay, well. Now that that’s done, I gotta run, sugar. I’ll see you at the lanes tonight, if you’re coming in.”

I mumbled something to him as he picked his way down the steps and shuffled to his car. I had no idea what I said, because I was too stunned. I pulled out the note stuck to the ball and set the bag on the floor.

Read me.

I tear it open and read it.

In case you get bored. Also, I think the citizens of Gold Haven would love to have a reason to get you back into the bowling alley to give another impromptu concert. I might have only caught the tail end of the last one, and even tequila spiked, it was amazing.

I miss you.

Yours,

Crey

Hell.

If I hadn’t already given the man my heart, he would have stolen it right there over a pink glittery bowling bowl and black-and-pink bowling shoes. I may be the only woman on the planet to prefer this gift to a Harry Winston diamond collar, but there was more thought and effort tied up in this gesture, and that makes all the difference in the world to me.

The next knock on the door—which has morphed into angry hammering—jars me out of the memory.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mutter as I yank the door open.

I should have looked through the lace curtain covering the tiny window in the door. But I didn’t.

“Hey, baby! Mama’s home!”

I hit the ground running when I arrived yesterday in New York, and have barely stopped since. Cannon scowled at me the entire time I was on the phone with Ben to get the bowling ball, shoes, and bag set up for Holly, but I kicked his ass out of the room when I arranged for the other delivery. That was the only time I spent on anything unrelated to business since I got here. Otherwise, it’s been clusterfuck after clusterfuck.

My uncle is accusing me of breaching my duty of loyalty to my own fucking company, and usurping a corporate opportunity because I didn’t allow the board of directors to vote on the purchase of Homegrown Records before I bought it personally.

I’ve spent almost every minute since I got here locked in with my lawyers—the ones I had to hire personally to defend me since my company attorneys have a conflict of interest—and what they’re telling me isn’t good. Sure¸ there are plenty of arguments in my favor, good ones, but the fact that they’re saying he has a case at all burns me straight to the gut.

There wouldn’t be an issue if I’d put the matter on the agenda to be voted on, gotten the blessing of the board, and then proceeded with the purchase, but I was in such a goddamn hurry—so eager to do the deal for Holly and make sure the record execs couldn’t screw her over—that I fucked up. I’ve never fucked up like this before. If my uncle files suit, my reputation in the business world, and with my own board and shareholders, will be damaged, maybe irrevocably.

I should have told Holly everything before I left Kentucky yesterday. She’s the one person I want to vent everything to, and she’s completely unavailable to me because I didn’t open my fucking mouth and say word one about what I did.

I know it’s because part of me doesn’t want to tip the new balance we found. This harmony feels so fucking good, I don’t want to screw it up before we even have a chance to enjoy it.

But this isn’t something I want to tell her when she’s not within my reach. I don’t think she’ll run again, but there’s always the chance she may think I was trying to buy her, and I’m not taking the chance that this announcement isn’t delivered with care.

What Cannon told me on the phone early yesterday when he called me in Kentucky was only that my uncle planned to file suit—not that he has any actual grounds. I figured the lawyers would sort that shit out in record time. God knows I pay them enough. But no solutions yet. Just multiple possible courses of action qualified a dozen ways to Sunday.

I pick up my phone to call Holly anyway. Just hearing her voice will be an improvement.

Cannon’s in the conference room next door when I pick up my phone and find Holly’s contact—not that it’s hard to find since it’s number one in my favorites. Maybe that’s why Cannon’s been pissy lately. He knows he’s been displaced.

It rings twice before she picks up.

“Crey?”

Relief slides through me at the sound of her voice. “Hey, baby.”

“Hi. Can I call you back? I’m sort of . . . busy at the moment.”

I hear voices in the background, and she must have her hand over the phone because I hear her shushing someone in a muted tone. The relief I feel fades.

“Holly? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Can I call you back in a couple hours?”

Her voice sounds strained, and there’s no way I believe her everything’s fine line.

“Something’s wrong. What is it?” I demand.

“I can’t really talk now, but I’ll tell you later.”

I force down the urge to push her to tell me what the hell is going on. “Call me anytime. I love you, Holly.”

“’Bye, Crey.”

She hangs up, and it isn’t lost on me that she doesn’t say she loves me back.

I’m not sure why I’m here, but for some reason, when I left my lawyers’ office, I walked to the Rose Club at the Plaza instead of back to my penthouse. I shrug off my overcoat and hang it on the back of the velvet bar stool.

When the bartender heads my way immediately, which isn’t surprising because the service here is impeccable, I say, “Bushmills 21, please. Three fingers.”