Country Heaven by Ava Miles

say the word. “You’ll remember I’m…not very trusting about private matters, so back to your grandpa. What was he like?”
    Since changing the subject meant so much to him, she didn’t press the issue. “He loved to read. Laugh. Take chances.” She paused. “I bet you two would have gotten along.” A strange realization, but true.
    Rye stuffed his garbage into the bag. “Well, we both like ham sandwiches.”
    “You were separated at birth, I’m sure.” Tory rolled her eyes, the joke lightening her load somehow.
    “You’d better eat something. I’ll go call Clayton.”
    No , she decided, she could suck it up. “It’s okay. I should be able to drive back with you. I’m tougher than I look.”
    His smile started out slow but continued to grow until it filled his whole face, making his eyes twinkle under the brim of his black cowboy hat.
    “Don’t I know it, but I promise to drive real slow on the way back.”
    She picked at her sandwich while they sat in silence. After eating at least eight bites, she tucked the leftovers into the bag.
    “I’m ready,” she said.
    He jumped down and plucked her off the truck. After setting her on the ground, his hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and there was comfort in the connection. His body cast a long shadow, shading her from the sun. And a familiar tingle of awareness spread through her. Needing to break the spell, she flicked up his cowboy hat playfully. Rye’s brows rose as she pulled away.
    “Better get me back. I have your supper to prepare,” she said as if to remind them both.
    “Right,” he drawled and helped her back into the truck.
    She clicked on her seat belt as he turned the key. But instead of gunning the engine like he had before, he eased forward like he was pushing a sleeping baby in a stroller.
    Her eyes tracked to the speedometer. “Twenty miles per hour, huh?”
    “I promised you a safe ride back.”
    A couple of cars passed them along the main road, some honking in frustration, and while his mouth twisted now and again, he didn’t speed once—a gesture that felt like the first makings of friendship.
    It had been a long while since she’d felt that kind of consideration.

Our house’s got cracks licking up the side,
Squeezing the life outta the people inside.

Don’t wanna live in a glass house no more.
Nosy neighbors peering in from the outside.

Put on a show.
Like a mannequin in Ms. Jenkins’ country store.
I can’t take it no more.

Ignore the pain,
There’s nowhere to hide.
There’s cracks in the glass house,
Licking up the side.
    Rye Crenshaw’s Number One Hit, “Cracks in the Glass House”

Chapter 6
    T he first two weeks of June rolled by in a blur as they covered the upper Eastern seaboard and then cut across the south. Rye sang in a new city every night or every other night, depending on the travel distance, sleeping in a hotel room once in a blue moon. Before too long, he fell into this tour’s rhythm. Each tour had one, he’d discovered, and he was happy to learn that the defining feature of this one was food. He’d called his good friend, Rhett Butler Blaylock, to thank him for suggesting he hire his own tour cook. It was something he was going to do from now on, though he couldn’t imagine finding a better one than Tory.
    Her food was magical, and it seemed to affect his mood. If he were tired after a late concert, breakfast had him feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed. If he were cross because he was worrying about his daddy, dinner made him feel peaceful before he went onstage. And her sassy and delightful company only added to his enjoyment of her food.
    Sure, he’d had to work out more, but then again, he’d always loved feeling that particular burn.
    When he strolled into the kitchen en route to Dallas and eyed the fried chicken sizzling in the cast iron skillet, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Creamy scalloped potatoes covered with cheddar cheese and steaming