Sophia drew up a contract.

She felt that it was better this way: neat, tidy, and spelled out on paper. But when Sophia slapped it down in front of Finn at Southern Ireland ("The Republic," Saoirse moaned, shaking her fist. "No self-respecting Irish person calls it Southern Ireland, Sophia!"), rattling his coffee cup, Finn stared as if she'd just presented him with a decapitated squirrel.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Our terms," Sophia said.

"You're insane."

"I'm a businesswoman," Sophia corrected him, sliding into a seat. "I like to be thorough." She took a sip of his coffee, wrinkling her nose. "Ew. You add sugar?"

Finn smirked. "You know it, baby."

Sophia pulled a face. "No terms of endearment. That's clause 47."

"It's not actually, is it?"

"Of course not," Sophia scoffed, and then paused. "I think it's clause 45, actually. Or maybe 46. I forget which one, exactly."

They were interrupted by the arrival of Saoirse, who proudly plonked a steaming cup of green froth in front of Sophia. It was decorated with a cinnamon heart, as well as a little blue flag that said, "Sophia's drink."

"Well?" Saoirse demanded. "What do you think?"

Sophia stared at it. "Er. What is it?"

"It's your drink, obviously."

Sophia was touched. "Saoirse! You got matcha mix just for me?"

Sophia had only been into Southern Ireland — no, the Republic, she reminded herself, must remember that — a few times since arriving in Bashaw a week ago, but she was quickly forming a friendship with the elderly Irish woman.

Firstly, because the shop was along Sophia's morning running route. And secondly, because Sophia was fairly certain that she was the only person left in Bashaw able to stomach Saoirse's complaining about Casper's grandmother, Bev.

"She's a proper eejit," Saoirse would mutter, viciously whisking her muffin mix. "I hope she falls into a cow patty and drowns in it."

Sophia had only met Bev once at the grocery store and thought she seemed like a lovely, sweet old woman with a fondness for sour candies. Not that she would ever admit that. Particularly to Saoirse.

Cautiously, Sophia took a sip of the matcha latte, moaning as the nutty, earthy flavour filled her mouth. Finn looked amused.

"Good?" he asked.

"Delicious," Sophia announced. "I owe you everything, Saoirse."

Saoirse wrinkled her nose. "I don't see why you like them." She leaned against the table, a tea towel thrown over her shoulder. "Tried one this morning, and it was all foam and no flavour. I'll be sticking to coffee myself."

Finn smiled innocently. "Maybe your tastebuds are going."

Saoirse whacked him with a tea towel. "You watch your tongue, boyo," she warned. "Or I'll cut it out of you."

Sophia smiled.

She really did love Saoirse.

Once they hammered out the details, Sophia walked back to the house for dinner. She had become part of the Peters' comfortable routine over the last few weeks; Grace and Sophia would cook the meal each evening while Tabby and John oversaw the harvesting in the fields. Every day was a carbon copy of the last.

Until tonight, however.

"So," John said, spearing a potato. "How are your classes going, Sophia?"

"Fine."

"And the Hoag boy?" John asked. "How's he doing?"

Tabby dropped her spoon, splattering pea soup across the table. Sophia frowned at the green splotch on her white cashmere sweater.

"Tabby," she sighed. "This is Tory Burch."

"Finn Hoag?" Tabby demanded. "That's who drives you to school?"

Sophia looked down at the stain morosely. "Do you even have dry cleaners here?"

"You were in Finn's car?"

"Why?" Sophia wrinkled her nose. "Do you know him?"

Tabby stared at Sophia as if she'd asked whether Tabby knew the capital of the United States or who Zac Efron was. "Everyone knows Finn. He's like, the number one bareback rider in the world. And he's gorgeous."

"Oh, my god." Horror filled her. "Is that an actual sport?"

"I can't believe this," Tabby muttered. "You know Finn Hoag."

"I met him last year," John said mildly, cutting up his steak. "His father sold me two hundred head of cattle. Nice man."

Tabby looked aghast. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

"Actually," Sophia said mildly, "we're sort of dating."

Tabby spit soup all over the table. "You're what?"

"Early days," Sophia said airily, enjoying Tabby's scandalized expression just a little too much. "I'm doing a photoshoot for his sister tomorrow, actually."

"You're— you—" Tabby shook her head, as if her brain was short-circuiting. "You know what? I'm going to need a second to process this."

"And I'm going to need a new tablecloth," Grace said morosely, looking at where the green pea soup was seeping into the white fabric.

Sophia had worn a lot of bizarre outfits over the years.

She wore a green, feathered ensemble to TIFF last year, and a flamingo dress to the Cannes Film Festival in 2018 — complete with head and beak. Hell, she had even worn a jumpsuit with LED lights sewn into the sleeves for Ella's first big concert in Toronto.

But this was the worst.

She turned to the right, studying herself in the mirror. She supposed the ripped, dirty jeans had a sort of '70s, Madonna-inspired look, but the red flannel was truly horrendous. And the hat. Why did Gemma want her to wear a snapback?

Sophia flicked the brim of the hat glumly.

It would have to do.

Outside, a car honked. Tabby rushed to the window, looking like she was trying far too hard to casually stir her tea. Sophia ruffled the other girl's spiky blonde hair. Tabby's nails were painted a burnt orange, an identical shade to the autumn leaves outside.

"You have a boyfriend," Sophia said.

"I know." Tabby winked. "But I can still admire yours."

Sophia felt a jolt. Boyfriend. She supposed she would have to get used to it, though. She hesitated near the front door; she wanted to tell Tabby the truth, but she also didn't want it leaked to the press. And while she trusted Tabby, she had also been burned in the past. Badly.

"We're not official," Sophia said instead. "We're just hanging out."

"Same thing."

"And he'll dump me once he sees this hat."

"You look like a proper country girl," Tabby said, grinning. "Finn Hoag is going to lose his mind."

Sophia snatched up her keys. "Unlikely."

"Farm boys love a bit of flannel."

"Nobody loves flannel," Sophia called over her shoulder, and Tabby shot her an uncharacteristically rude gesture.

Sophia skipped down the front steps, yanking open the door to the truck. Finn went still, his eyes climbing from her jeans to her red flannel to the offensively Alberta hat. He made a choking noise. "You look — That is to say, I don't—"

"Choose your words carefully," Sophia warned him.

"Different," Finn finished.

Despair filled her. "Oh, no."

"Natural," Finn amended. "You're wearing this the wrong way, though."

Finn reached out to twist the cap backwards, his fingers brushing her hair. Sophia shot backwards. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. "At least it's not a cowboy hat. I'd have to throw myself in front of a tractor."

Finn smiled. "Tractors go about half a mile an hour."

"Well, I'm patient."

He started the truck. Sophia watched him warily. Some strange part of her felt disappointed, but it was only to be expected, wasn't it? People always had a preference on how she dressed. Kit liked her in thigh-high boots. Her stylist liked her in leather trousers. Her most-liked Instagram post was a picture of her in a plunging white dress on a Parisian balcony.

She didn't know why she thought Finn would be any different.

Sophia fiddled with a golden bangle. Crossed her feet. Uncrossed them. Finally, when it became too much, she spoke. "You prefer me this way, don't you?"

Finn glanced sideways. "What?"

"Relaxed," Sophia clarified. "Without make-up."

He arched an eyebrow. "Does it matter what I prefer?"

"Just tell me."

Finn pulled onto another dirt road. The breeze filtering through the window ruffled his hair, the same colour as summer wheat. Freckles dotted his nose. When he met her gaze, his blue eyes were thoughtful.

"You look good in everything, Toronto, but I suspect you already know that. Anyway, I don't care what you're wearing; you'll still be the same smug big city girl that has terrible taste in music."

Her mouth went dry. "How sweet."

"I try."

Sophia looked away. His words were meant to be offensive, but there was a compliment in there somewhere. And — more than that — there was something else. She felt...

Relieved?

Seen?

Finn found her irritating and superior and uncultured, but at least he found her something. At least he was seeing Sophia, and not Sophia-The-Brand. It had been an embarrassingly long time since someone had done that.

"What?" Finn asked.

"Hmm?"

"You're looking at me strangely."

"It's nothing." Sophia ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't notice her flaming cheeks. "It's my turn to pick the music."

Finn looked horrified. "Absolutely not."

"Too late." She fiddled with a dial. "How do you feel about Shawn Mendes?"

"Don't you dare, Toronto."

She ignored him. Finn swatted at her hand.

"Hey! Stop that."

They fell into an easy rapport, squabbling over music and who got the last piece of gum, batting each other's hands away from the console. Sophia couldn't help but smile. This. This was the best part of spending time with Finn. They drove to Calgary together twice a week — Mondays and Thursdays — and she couldn't help but look forward to it.

Not that she'd ever admit it.

She leaned back in the seat, watching as the golden fields whipped by, dotted with hay bales as tightly wound as cinnamon buns. Finn rolled down the window, and the scent of warm earth filled the truck. He switched to country music.

Sophia groaned. "Really?"

"Embrace it," he said. "It'll grow on you."

"Like a tumor. Or black mould."

She kicked her bare feet up on the dashboard, and Finn's eyebrows flew to his hairline. "What are you doing?"

"Embracing it," Sophia shot back. "Isn't this what Alberta girls do?"

Finn looked like he was fighting a smile. "Trust me, Toronto; I don't think you'll ever be an Alberta girl." Sophia let out a large yawn, stretching her arms, and his smile grew. "Oh, dear. Am I boring you?"

"Obviously," Sophia said. "But I also haven't been sleeping well."

Finn nodded sagely. "Too much ketamine?"

Sophia shot him a look. "It's too quiet here. Toronto's always busy, even at three o'clock in the morning."

She hadn't realized how much she missed the wail of ambulance sirens and drunken college kids stumbling home from the bar until it was replaced by crickets. And frogs. Possibly both; Sophia still wasn't sure how to tell the difference.

She reached for the dial, twisting it until the radio switched to a soothing pop song. Finn shot her a look, but mercifully, he didn't say anything.

"So," Sophia said. "You ride horses professionally."

"Tabby told you?"

She nodded. "You could have said, you know."

"Would you have cared?"

Sophia was horrified to find that yes, actually, she did care. Very much. She shifted in her seat, fiddling with a button on the flannel.

"No," she lied. "But as your girlfriend, I should know these things."

"Know what, exactly?"

"I don't know." Sophia shrugged. "How the sport works, I guess. And why you're so good at it. Don't take that as a compliment," she added quickly, seeing his smug expression. "I'm merely stating a fact."

"Fine." Finn guided the truck on to the highway, speeding up slightly. "Stay after the photoshoot tonight, then."

"Why?"

"You can have dinner with my sister and I."

Sophia balked. "I—what?"

"You said you wanted to get to know me, right?" Finn shrugged. "Meeting Gemma is a good place to start."

And Sophia, who couldn't argue with that, fell silent.