Page 13 of Holding Hope

And just like that, it was decided. We were doing this. Was I ready to face the music?

Stepping out of the Uber, I stretched my arms and yawned. Four hours from the nearest airport felt like a lifetime when you weren’t sure you were supposed to be somewhere. I checked the papers in my hand again—the song, the revised lyrics, the payout I could offer Clarke for royalties, and a written will in case she murdered me.

“This is where you wanted me to drop you off, yeah?” the driver asked, his southern drawl sending goosebumps up my arms.

“Yup. This is the place.”

King Ranch.

The barn-like structure towered above me, the sign King & Co. gleaming in silver and black. I swallowed hard.

Ever since That Night—the song—had blown up, fans wanted more. More music. More collaborations. More of what I couldn’t give them.

Then Melody Claire reached out. Clarke’s sister. Clarke’s manager. She knew things only Clarke and I knew.

So, I’d taken the leap. Now I stood in front of the King family empire with nothing but my guitar, notebooks, and several weeks’ worth of clothes.

Inside, the foyer was massive—twin staircases curving into a half-moon, leading to what looked like sleeping quarters.

“Hello?” I called. Silence. I wandered up the stairs, stopping at a massive family portrait. Clarke sat on the couch beside her mother and younger sister, wearing a black mini dress and a single piece of jewelry.

A quarter. A quarter engraved with a guitar. My breath caught. She had kept it. Even after I left. Even after I released the song. Why?

I touched the canvas gently, tracing the outline of the coin. Had I been completely wrong about the kind of person I had made her out to be?

I moved down the hall, passing portraits of the King siblings—Clarke with a horse, Colton at a bull-riding event, the youngest daughter smiling shyly.

They looked happy. Whole. Like a family. A pang of jealousy hit me hard.

I peeked into one of the rooms—small, cozy, decorated with animal photos and religious décor. Definitely the Bible Belt.

Seven rooms total. Six sleeping quarters. One main office. The Big Office. I pushed the door open. Empty. Relief washed over me—until I heard boots downstairs and Clarke’s voice drifting up the stairs.

“Melly? Do you know whose things are sitting in the foyer?”

Panic surged. I looked around for somewhere to hide. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The doorknob turned. Oh God. I was going to throw up.

The door opened. Clarke stood there, framed in the doorway, eyes wide, voice sharp. “What in God’s good gracious name are you doing in my Daddy’s office?”

I swallowed hard, fidgeting with the leather bracelets on my wrists.

Time to face that music, Avalon Kennedy.

Clarke glared at me like she could set me on fire with her eyes alone. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”

Each word came through gritted teeth, her grip tightening on the pink guitar like she fully intended to use it as a weapon.

I took a step back, scanning the office for anything—anything—I could use to defend myself from a 5’10” blonde country singer wielding a baby-pink guitar like a medieval battle axe. Nothing. Not a single object within reach.

Clarke raised the guitar behind her ear; feet braced apart like she was about to knock a baseball into orbit. Same cowboy boots from That Night. Same freckles, only darker from the Texas sun. Same curls, only wilder. Same scowl, only deeper.

“Avalon,” she said, voice low and lethal, “I’d really rather not repeat myself. What the fuck are you doing in my Daddy’s office?”

I swallowed. Actual fear crawled down my spine. “Hi, Clarke. Or is it ‘Howdy, Clarke,’ since this is—” I stumbled into the desk, the oak slamming into my hip. “—Texas.” I laughed. Badly. Very badly.

Her lip twitched. She dragged her tongue across the inside of her cheek. Then she inhaled, slow and sharp, and gripped the guitar again.

“No. No, we’re not doing this.”