“Good.”
He kisses me and spins me in another circle, then sets me down. “You hungry?”
I’ve been warned about this by his former bandmates.
Performing gives him the munchies.
It’s adorable.
I slip my hand in his and tug him toward the door. “Let’s go get food.”
We hit a greasy spoon on the outskirts of Copper Valley, Cash’s home city, for pancakes and bacon and eggs and hash browns. No one else is here—I set it up in advance for them to open just for us after the show, and we have our usual security detail at the front and back doors.
Also, it’s very odd that I’m used to having a personal security detail and that I finally trust my luck isn’t about to run out.
You make your own luck, Cash has said over and over.
It’s not that simple—Waverly discovering me was luck I had no control over—but beyond that, I work hard to make music that my ever-growing fan base connects with.
Just like his music might be different now, but it still hits the soul of what his fan base—what Bro Code’s old fan base—wants from him.
“How’d you know?” Cash asks me after he’s devoured half his food.
I smile. “To come here? My spies told me.”
“You have very good spies.”
This isn’t the same greasy spoon the guys told me they used to hit back in the day. It closed down a few years back. But this diner is run by the same family and has the same magic pancakes.
With sprinkles.
I didn’t know the first time I told Cash that I liked sprinkles in my pancakes that he did too.
Or that we both like our bacon limp.
Or that we both like our hash browns extra crispy.
We’re basically the same person when it comes to breakfast foods.
“They told me you’ll probably be up early tomorrow too,” I tell him.
He grins. “Nope.”
I lift my brows.
“When I do Minneapolis next month, yes. Here at home? Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You need to sleep in.”
I laugh at that. “I can take a nap. Or you can go without me.”
“I need to sleep in.”
That’s the weirdest thing I’veeverheard him say.
The only time he sleeps in is during the holidays.
