“I know the singer you mean.”
She rolled down the sleeves of her denim jacket and smirked. “Of course you know him. You’re you.”
Cary half-smiled, acknowledging her comment. “I take it he’s a big music fan, your dad?”
“He’s a musician. Bert Robertson.”
His eyes popped open. “He’s your dad?”
“Do you know him?” A hint of suspicion edged in her voice.
“No . . . no.” Cary leaned forward. “Nothing like that. But I saw Bert’s—your dad’s—band when I was a kid. He’s a gifted guitar player.” He lowered his voice. “His tone is incredible.”
Tyler wasn’t hungry, but she couldn’t resist the truffle popcorn—one of her weaknesses. Another was sappy love songs, the kind Cary used to be known for. But he hadn’t written a ballad in over a decade. Maybe longer.
“That’s what people say,” sheanswered finally.
“You must play?” he asked.
“Nope.” She licked the oil off her fingers. “I don’t know what happened to me. All my siblings play something.” She gulped a mouth full of water and wiped her hands on the napkin. “What about your family? Do your parents play?”
“My folks? No, they don’t play anything.”
“What would you do if you didn’t play music?”
“Photography,” he said, not missing a beat.
That’s right.Cary Kingston was also known for taking moody black-and-white photos of models and actresses—anddating them.
“I forgot you did that.”
He looked at her, steady and sure. “I’d like to take your picture sometime.”
Tyler’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Kim.
Landed.
“Sorry, I have to take this.” She texted back a thumbs-up emoji. “I love Kim, and she’s a great TM, but she’s on the road with this band from hell.”
“That’s why I pay people.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s just easier.”
“What about the guys in your band?”
“It’s more like an arranged marriage.” He poured a glass of water. “Both sides know the deal going into it.”
Her phone vibrated—Kim again.
Josh can’t find his cymbals. FML.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, reading her screen.
Of all the days for this to be happening.
She didn’t want to lose her shit in front of Cary, but Josh wasn’t making it easy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone even.
“Just everything.” Her heart pounded like the kettledrum in2001: A Space Odyssey. “The airline lost the drummer’s cymbals—or he didn’t bring them.” She used both thumbs to text. “It’s highly likely he forgot them.”
