Page 30 of Sunrise Arrows

Tinsley gives my house another look before coming over and taking the basket and blanket from me.

“Archer, it’s beautiful,” she compliments. “It fits in perfectly with everything that was already here, enhancing it all instead of taking away from it.”

I sit across from her, my hand brushing back and forth over the soft fibers of the plaid blanket as I squint against the sun to look out over the water.

“It’s not a historic, 100 year old Bel-Air mansion, but I like it just the same.”

She smirks at me while handing over a still warm fried green tomato BLT. “You saw that, did you? Tell me, Archer, what else have you kept up with?”

“It’s kinda hard not to,” I snort, waiting for her to settle in before beginning to eat. “You’re everywhere, Tins. I can’t remember the last time a day went by where I didn’t see your face or hear your voice on the radio.

“Besides, you’ve met Ellie. She worships you. I literally can’t escape you.”

I notice all she has in front of her are some cut up raw vegetables without ranch or any sort of dip. She doesn’t even have her strawberries with her. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

“Can’t,” she answers after swallowing a bite of cucumber. “Between the frozen strawberry margaritas, shots of tequila, and bacon ranch cheese fries at Dark Horse the other night, I’ve blown my diet to pieces. That doesn’t even include the nightly bottle or two of sparkling wine I have with Briar, the pints of strawberry ice cream, or the frappés I’ve had every day. All the cardio and training in the world won’t do me a whole lot of good when the tour resumes if I’m eating unbalanced junk. Even if it’sreallygood junk,” she adds forlornly, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth.

I set the sandwich down and adjust my glasses. “You can’t be serious. You’re fuckin’ perfect. Why would you let anyone control what you can and can’t eat?”

“It’s my job, Archer. Between travel, hotel, and tickets, my fans pay a lot of money to see me perform. I have to be at my best every night for them, and that means a rigorous exercise regime and heavily moderated diet.”

“Even on vacation?”

“Especially while on vacation,” she stresses.

“That’s ridiculous.” I can’t help the derisive scoff that comes with my words because it is.

Her eyes are sharp daggers when they connect with mine. “It’s myjob.I’m a performer. You wouldn’t be saying that if I was some football player or gold medalist. But no,” she drawls, rolling her eyes and giving me another peek of her absent accent. “I just prance around in sparkly dresses and sing silly little songs like a bubble headed doll. How hard could it possibly be?”

“Who the fuck said that to you?” I demand, though I already know. People all across the globe have said it.

But the way Tinsley is now—all defense and rigid anger—seems like it’s come from a lot closer of a source. It’s as if the words were spewed by someone whose voice had the power to reach her above all the other noise, and I want to toss my hat and beat their ass for slipping inside her mind like this. She’s talented and smart and oozes grace and kindness and is so stunning every glimpse of her, whether she’s on the red carpet or in one of my old denim shirts, steals my breath.

“Tell me, Tinsley. Who was it? Was it that fuckin’ asshole whose car you keyed?”

“Oh God,” she humorlessly laughs, head thrown back as she huffs. “Of course you saw that. Jesus… No, it wasn’t Corey. He just liked to call me a frigid bitch,” she dismisses, as if that’s somehow an acceptable thing to say to the woman you love.

“You have terrible taste in men, Shortcake.”

“Well, they can’t all be you, now can they, Superman? Then again…” She drifts off, her face suddenly a blank mask as she looks over her shoulder at the house I built here in our place. She shakes her head, and another chuckle lacking life and vibrancy falls out. “You know what? Nevermind.”

She stands up, brushing her hands off on her jeans, and then it’s there, the artifice I’m growing to hate the more she shows it to me as if I can’t see through it. As if I wasn’t once the person who knew her as well as she knew herself.

“Thank you, Archer. It was incredible to be able to ride again. I’ve missed it so much.”

“Tinsley, wait!” I yell, scrambling to stand up and close the gap as she all but runs to where Rowdy is tethered. “Baby, talk to me, please.”

Everything I say falls on deaf ears.

“Don’t call me that!” She whirls, reins in hand and points at me. “You lost the privilege ten years ago, Archer. I’m not your baby or your Shortcake. I’m not your goddamn anythin’ anymore.” Swinging onto Rowdy, she calls out, “I’ll be sure to hand him off to Miss Lucy when I get back,” before taking off through the trees, readying for an all out gallop back to the stables.

Hands on my head, I tug at my hat as I turn around and yell out at the lake, kicking the sandy ground for good measure.

How did something so perfect get so goddamn fucked up?

CHAPTER9

Tinsley

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