“Your mum will be here soon. If she thinks you’re drunk, we’ll all get in trouble.”
Willow pulled a face, but it was short-lived. Nash beckoned her away from the crowd. “Saint wants you to meet someone really cool.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
Nash took her arm and guided her around the stage. Security saw him coming and waved him on, moving aside so me and Rubi could follow him through the back of the tent.
Outside, Saint waited by a truck, hair damp from the light rain, grass in his hair. I couldn’t fathom what the fuck he’d been doing for that to happen. Or why he held Willow’s guitar.
And if I thought he was gonna tell me, I was shit out of luck.
He pointed to the back of the truck.
Willow followed his gaze as the lead singer of the band stepped into the rain, shaggy hair in his face, a bottle of Lucozade in one hand, a wooden flute in the other.
He passed the flute to a nearby roadie, swapping it out for a beat-up guitar. Then he approached with an easy smile, stopping by Saint, his grin trained on my kid. “You brought me a jamming buddy?”
Saint shrugged and waved Willow forward. “She’s good.”
“Works for me, brother.”
The singer had a deep voice and a faint Belfast accent. Everything and nothing reminded me of Saint, and as he claimed Willow’s guitar and led her to a reserved firepit, I wondered what I was missing.
Then decided I didn’t give a shit. Whoever this fucker was, he brought his whole band out to jam and sing with my kid, and if this hadn’t been the best day of her life before, it was now.
I watched from a distance, sneaking photos to send to Logan, fighting the building emotion in my chest. Midnight was bearing down on us, but for the first time in too many years to count, I didn’t feel like the rotten pumpkin in my kid’s life.
A warm hand grazed my back.
Nash. “Doing okay there?”
I nodded, words still deserting me. In the shadow I’d chosen to hide, he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, pressing a kiss into my neck. “That little squid worships you.”
“She shouldn’t.”
“Why not? You smash this dad shit. She’s as lucky as you are.”
A scoff threatened the lump in my throat, but my phone vibrated with an incoming call, distracting me.
It was FaceTime. My brother.
Nash kissed me again. “Take it. I’ve got her.”
It was late. Logan was going on holiday tomorrow—three weeks backpacking in Bali with Remy. If he was calling me now, he was either bored at the fire station or he’d forgotten the combination to the suitcase he hadn’t used since he did the walk of shame from his own divorce.
Trusting he wouldn’t give me such tragic news via a video call, I answered the phone with a smile that matched how I felt.
Logan grinned back at me. “You drunk?”
“Nope.”
“Happy?”
“Yup.”
Logan’s smile widened and he leaned back in a reclining chair, the fire station behind him. “Where’s Willow?”
