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But Brenden’s already halfway up the stairs. So I eye the remaining pile of luggage and pick up a bag, as well as an oddly shaped piece that I realize is a guitar case.

Am I supposed to know who this woman is?

She did look vaguely familiar, but I was honestly trying to avoid checking her out, so I didn’t look too closely.

“Jesus, these are heavy,” Brenden complains, lowering his voice on the top landing.

It takes us two trips to deliver everything to the inn’s most luxurious suite. When we get back down to the empty lobby, Brenden retucks his shirt, then throws himself dramatically into the chair the woman had been sitting in, sinking down very low and looking utterly ridiculous.

I sit in the chair across from him. “Who was that?”

He gives me a puzzled look. “Are you kidding? You don’t know?”

“Should I?”

“I know you’re not a fan of country music,” he says as he manages to situp like a civilized person, “but there’s no way you haven’t heard of Riley Rowland.”

Oh, damn.

Yeah, I’ve heard of Riley Rowland. Little Miss Country Sweetheart, or whatever the hell they call her.

“What the heck is she doing here?” I ask, wrapping my mind around the fact that the woman who just went upstairs isfamousfamous. My guess was a social media influencer or something in that range.

“I already briefed the rest of the staff,” Brenden tells me. “Apparently, she needed to get out of Nashville as soon as possible. There’s been somewhat of a scandal surrounding her. She grew up in Mayweather, so she’s staying here indefinitely. Probably the whole summer.”

Frowning, I say, “No offense to this place, but couldn’t she afford to stay somewhere a whole lot fancier?”

He gives me a stink eye. “I think she feels like she’ll be able to lay low and avoid attention here. And she’s got family still in town. I don’t know if you’ve met Andrew Rowland, but that’s her brother. He lives over the yoga studio in a one-bedroom, though, so I’m sure staying with him isn’t an option.”

I cast my eyes upward, as if I can see through the ceiling, and wonder what kind of scandal that woman could’ve been involved in. Then I remind myself that I don’t care.

I also don’t care that she’s famous. That doesn’t make her and her long legs and her cowboy boots and all her luggage that I had to carry any less annoying.

She’s probably going to expect special treatment at all hours of the day and night. And I don’t have time for that. Brenden’s good at bending over backward for the guests, but I plan out my menus and stick to them. I’ll make accommodations for a person with allergies, of course, but if Little Miss Sweetheart thinks she can ask for kale smoothies or some other bullshit, she’s got another thing coming.

“Well, I hope her idea of laying low means staying in her room,” I say.

Brenden’s eyes widen and he looks around in a panic, like he’s worried she heard me. “You heard her say she won’t be any trouble. We can treat her like all the other guests. Except just, you know, try to remember that she has millions of fans who might potentially want to come stay here too, if she tells them she had a great experience.”

Shaking his head, he adds, “I mean, I’m sure she won’t be letting people know she’s here right now, but maybe she’ll talk about the inn after she’s gone back to Nashville.”

“And when will that be?”

“What’s gotten into you?” he asks, tilting his head curiously. “You’re crankier than usual.”

I huff, though he’s not wrong. “If I’m cranky, it’s because you were hounding me about how I should start dating again, so I spent my afternoon with a woman who had the personality of a casserole.”

“Mmm.” He rubs a hand over his stomach. “You make really good casseroles.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. You had one bad date. And we’ll hope the next one is better.”

“We will hope no such thing,” I inform him, standing up. “Because there won’t be a next one. I’m done.”

He follows right on my heels like an annoying puppy as I head for the kitchen. “You can’t give up after one date! The love of your life could be out there waiting for you right now!”

I push through the swinging doors, thinking it’s more likely that the woman Ithoughtwas the love of my life is out there right now sleeping her way through half of the queer women in Chicago—the half that she didn’t get to while we were married.