“I’ll quit music.” He wiped his palms on his jeans like he meant it.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re insane.”
“Then let’s be insane together.”
“I never want you to stop playing music.”
“Thank god.” He pressed his hands together in mock prayer. “I love rock and roll.”
“You and Joan Jett.”
He grinned. “So, is that a yes?”
“That’s a yes.”
Cary leaned in and kissed her. “Are you ready to go?”
“Do you mind if I meet you there?” She gave him a crooked grin. “I need to clean up—Dylan’s down for the count.”
“Want me to stay and help?”
“No, thank you.”
Cary backed toward the door. “Okay. But don’t make me wait forever.” He threw her a wink, and she was still smiling when the door clicked shut behind him.
An hour later, Tyler pressed her ear to the door of the Countess of Dufferin Suite. A guitar strummed softly from inside, but it wasn’tone of Cary’s songs. Maybe it was something new he was working on. Hopefully, it would be the hit he’d been chasing so desperately.
The song ended and she knocked on the door. This time there’d be no dog to distract them. She’d left Rory at her dad’s house. He seemed happy to hang out with Wilbur and eat cookies with his grandpa.
Cary cracked open the door. “Come on in.”
“What a dump,” she teased, stepping out of her boots.
“Sorry,” he said, sinking onto the loveseat. “The bigger suite was taken.”
She pointed to his guitar. “I heard you playing something?”
“Just writing. I’m not sure what it is yet.”
She pulled out her topknot and gave her head a shake. “Are you writing a song about me?”
“You’re so vain, babe.” He laughed and reached for the guitar again.
“Make sure it doesn’t suck, okay?” she joked.
This from the guy who’d won more ASCAP Songwriter of the Year awards than anyone in history.
“No promises.” He picked up his phone. “I’ve been watching this video of Nadie singing ‘Silver Bells.’ Would Dylan mind if I posted it?”
“Knock yourself out.” Cary’s posts always drew thousands, if not millions, of views. “The song Bert wrote.” He put down his phone and strummed a few chords. “The Christmas one . . .”
“What about it?”
“Has he ever recorded it?”
“No. He’s more of a musician than a songwriter.” She transferred the elastic band onto her wrist. “I think he wrote it before Perry was born if I’m not mistaken.”
Cary stood and crossed the room. “I’m opening a bottle of red. Unless you want champagne?”
