Finn was happy for Ava and Casper.

Really, he was.

But there was nothing worse, Finn reflected, than attending an engagement party when your own love life was in shambles. He stuffed a strawberry tart into his mouth. Guests drifted across the lawn, snapping pictures under a pink-and-white flower arch or sprawling in plastic lawn chairs. Golden balloons hovered around a table groaning under the weight of carrot cupcakes, iced sticky buns, and a towering croquembouche.

Sophia would have loved it.

Not that he was thinking about Sophia, Finn thought firmly. It was purely an observation.

And he definitely wasn't waiting for her to show up.

Not at all.

"Finn!" a voice called.

He turned.

Saoirse was hobbling across the grass towards him, one hand gripping a fistful of her lavender skirts. There was flour smeared on her cheek — how, he didn't know — and her dark eyes glittered with something dangerous. Finn raised a glass of sparkling juice.

"Saoirse," he said. "May I offer my congratulations?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Your condolences, more like."

Finn hid a smile.

A shout went up from near the flower wall. Casper was carrying Ava bridal-style, laughing as his fiancé attempted to mash a cupcake into his face. Saoirse sighed.

"You see?" The Irish woman shook her head. "That's been going on all day."

"They seem happy," Finn observed.

"I know," Saoirse said. "It's horrible, isn't it?"

"Oh, come on." Finn drained his glass. "You and Bev can put your differences aside for the wedding, can't you?"

Saoirse gave him a look. "I tried. You see those sticky buns?" She pointed to the table. "That damn woman moved my cinnamon rolls and replaced them with her own cream cheese abominations."

"To be fair," Finn said mildly, "cream cheese icing is delicious."

Saoirse whacked him on the ribs.

Crippling pain radiated through his chest. No. That was an understatement. The right side of his body, Finn thought darkly, felt like it had been dipped in kerosene and then set on fire. Saoirse had the good grace to look guilty.

"Ah," she said. "Sorry, laddie. Forgot about the whole..." She gestured vaguely to his midsection. "Ribs situation."

"S'alright," Finn grunted. "They're almost healed."

It had been three-and-a-half weeks since his stint in the hospital. Technically, the surgeon had told him to rest for six weeks, but...

Finn scratched his neck. Actually, he had no defense to that. But he when did he ever follow practical advice?

Saoirse's eyes narrowed. "You sure you should be riding today?"

"I'll be fine," Finn said.

Probably.

Not that Finn was about to admit that out loud.

He plucked another sparkling juice from a table, scanning the crowd. Ava and Casper were doing a little dance around the lawn, looking deliriously happy. Leo and Tabby were cuddling in a lawn chair. Even Gemma and Cam were smiling, tossing rings at glass bottles.

"She's not coming," Saoirse said.

Finn turned. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Finn Hoag," Saoirse said, her eyes narrowing. "I've known you since you used to run around naked on my lawn."

"Haunting," Finn muttered, raising the glass to his lips.

"You could text her."

Saoirse mimed the action, as if Finn might not understand what she meant. It was almost endearing enough to make him smile. Almost.

"She doesn't want to hear from me," Finn said, sobering. "Trust me."

Sophia had made that clear enough at the hospital. Every time Finn thought about that day — about begging her to stay in front of a room full of people — he genuinely considered throwing himself off a horse again. Amnesia was a side effect of being concussed, right?

Saoirse took his glass. "Are you sure?" She sipped the drink. "Love is complicated, and I'm of the opinion that—" She broke off, sputtering slightly "Fecking hell. Is this juice?"

Finn nodded. "I'm competing today."

Saoirse shuddered. "The devil's nectar." She thrust the glass towards him. "Get me a whisky, boy."

"I would," Finn said, "but I'm already running late." Impulsively, he leaned over to kiss her temple. "Enjoy the party, Saoirse."

The Irish woman's face softened. It was still strange, Finn reflected, to look down at Saoirse now; when had he grown taller than her? He turned to go, and he made it as far as the flower arch before Saoirse called out.

"Finn!"

He turned.

She shifted her weight. "Remember those pajamas we gave you? At Christmas? With the pink horses?"

Finn arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"They weren't from me," Saoirse said.

"Okay," Finn said slowly.

He waited. Saoirse shuffled her feet. This, Finn reflected, was a strange time for Saoirse to have a crisis of conscience, but hey — who was he to judge?

"They were from Sophia," Saoirse said.

Icy cold washed over him. "What?"

"That girl loves you, Finn," Saoirse said. "Really loves you." Her voice was uncharacteristically earnest. "And if you can't see that, then I'm going to whack you over the head with a rolling pin until you do."

Ah. And there she was.

"Sounds painful," Finn observed.

Saoirse patted his shoulder. "Love usually is."

Sophia was running late.

The morning had been a series of disasters. First, her flight from Toronto to Edmonton was running late. Then, Ophelia spilled coffee on her book and had a five-minute panic trying to clean it. And now, they were stuck behind a group of slow-moving cows.

She hadn't even realized that cows could move this slowly.

"Come on," Ophelia muttered. "Come on, come on."

Her cousin was sitting in the driver's seat, drumming her nude fingernails on the steering wheel. Her crimson hair was caught up in a nestle of curls, and she was wearing a golden dress that fell off her shoulders. She looked like a woman in a Renaissance painting, Sophia reflected; a very angry woman.

Sophia held her phone out the window. "Is there service here?"

"I'm not a broadband expert," Ophelia said, "but we're in the middle of the countryside. So, no. Probably not."

Sophia swore creatively.

She held her phone up higher. Damn, damn, damn. She was meant to be hopping on an Estrella call with Callie Winthrope and Kit right now. Why were there so many grain towers and no cell towers?

"Try my phone," Ophelia offered.

Sophia snatched up her cousin's phone. Three bars. Relief flooded her, and she punched in the number, holding the phone up in front of her. Seconds later, a very angry Callie Winthrope appeared on the screen, along with Kit and a handful of middle-aged men.

"You're late." Callie's voice was short. "Very late."

"I know," Sophia said. "I'm so sor—" She paused. "Actually. I'm not."

Callie's photo flickered. "Pardon?"

"I'm not sorry," Sophia repeated. "Do you know how many hours I work a week?" Irritation pricked at her. "Specifically for Estrella. Just take a guess."

Kit frowned. "Sophia, I don't see how—"

"Eighty," Sophia cut in. "That's double my contracted time."

"Ms. Huntington." Callie was gripping a pencil so tight that her knuckles were white. "Please keep in mind that our shareholders are a part of this call. Do you need a moment to compose yourself?"

"No," Sophia said. "I quit."

Callie blinked. "Pardon?"

"I quit." Sophia kicked her feet up on the dashboard. "I am quitting. You're familiar with the word, aren't you?"

"Sophia," Kit hissed. "Stop it."

His dark hair was neatly gelled, and Kit was gripping the desk, as if he was resisting the urge to run his hands through it. For the first time, Sophia felt a pang of guilt. Not for breaking up with him — heaven only knew that Kit wouldn't care — but because she was leaving him alone in this mess.

"I'm sorry, Kit," Sophia said, "but I can't do this anymore. And I've stuck around long enough that you should be fine." She gave Kit a pointed look, hoping that he understood her meaning: his gambling debts could be paid. "I'm terminating our contract."

"You can't do that," Callie said.

"I can, actually." Sophia's voice was calm. "Section three, subsection A. In the case of misconduct or breach of contract, either party can terminate the agreement upon written notification. I would say that blackmailing me into dating an employee is misconduct, wouldn't you?"

"I didn't..." Callie licked her lips. "That is, I didn't actually say—"

"I record my phone calls," Sophia said airily. "Just for your information. And fortunately, I have a pen and paper, and I know how to write. Any more questions?"

A vein throbbed at Callie's temple. "For god's sake, Sophia, we're in the middle of a campaign. You can't just—"

"And I'm in the middle of my life." Sophia's voice rose. "You can't just ask me to put it on pause. You can't control who I date, or what I say, or what I do on my days off. I'm a person." She shook her head. "You know that, don't you?"

Callie's grip on the pencil was suffocating. "Perhaps we should discuss this on another call."

"I've made up my mind," Sophia said.

"If this is about salary—" Callie cut off, her gaze catching on something behind Sophia's head. "Good lord. Is that a cow?"

Sophia glanced out the window. "Technically, it's a steer."

Kit frowned. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Hanging up this call," Sophia said. "The paperwork will be on your desk by Monday, Callie. Enjoy your weekend."

She hung up the phone.

Ophelia let out a whoop, pumping her fist. Her bracelets jangled together, and she was grinning like an idiot, doing a little dance in the driver's seat. "You did it!"

"Oh, my god." Sophia put her head between her legs. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"You were great," Ophelia said.

"Seriously. Do you have a paper bag?"

"Who carries around paper bags?" Ophelia yanked on the steering wheel, and the car lurched to the side, barrelling down a dirt road. "Anyway, we're almost there. Do you have the speaker and microphone ready?"

Sophia glanced at the objects in the back seat. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"I can't believe Ava agreed," Ophelia said. "Do you care if I record it?"

Sophia shot her a look. Ophelia shrugged.

"I mean, I'm going to do it anyway," her cousin said. "But I thought I'd ask."

The car hurtled down the road, kicking up sprays of red dust. Sophia's stomach had crawled into her throat, and she clung to the handle. Oh, god. This was a terrible idea. Why the hell had she suggested it?

They pulled up to a lawn, punctuated with a flower arch, lawn chairs, and guests in frilly dresses. Ophelia stopped so abruptly that Sophia almost smacked into the windshield.

"Go." Ophelia gave her a little shove. "Go, go, go!"

Sophia leapt from the car.

She sprinted for the grass, cursing as her heels sunk into the dirt. She tucked the speaker under her arm, trying desperately not to fall. Stupid dirt. Stupid heels. Why had she thought that any of this was a good idea? Her eyes caught on a familiar figure, and she almost cried with relief.

"Saoirse!" she called.

The Irish woman stared at her. "Sweet mother Mary. What are you carrying?"

"Where's Finn?"

Sophia was panting, now, fueled by adrenaline, panic, and coffee. Her hands were shaking so badly that she almost dropped the speaker. Saoirse's face softened.

"I'm sorry, dear," Saoirse said. "Finn left about ten minutes ago. You've just missed him."