“Yeah, that.” That sounded right. “Does it work?” He swung their hands between them.
Becca lifted her shoulder and tilted her ears from shoulder to shoulder. “Sometimes. Depends on the case. What are you thinking?”
He jerked his chin toward the drummer. “Tanner needs beautiful women inundating his space. That way he’ll get used to it.”
Becca seemed to choke on nothing. “You want to put Tanner through immersion therapy with women?”
Linx nodded. Exactly.
Becca shook her head. “No. Whatever is making him nervous with women needs to be handled with a light touch. By a professional.”
“I’m a professional.”
She scrunched up her nose again. This time she added a cute frown to it. “You’re a musician.”
“I’m aprofessionalmusician.”
Becca’s lips quirked up. “That doesn’t count.”
“Says who?” He slung his arm around her shoulder.
“Says the one of us with a master’s degree in psychology and a license to practice.”
Details, shmetails. Tanner just needed a dash of Linx and a lot of experience. They’d call it a scientific experiment to snap him out of this thing.
“He got an invite, too?” Becca asked.
Linx should’ve grabbed Becca’s hand and headed straight for the exit. But the call of cake proved stronger than his urge to flee. “They invited the whole band. Mach’s probably coming later.”
They’d all received invitations scribbled on their dollar bills in hot pink Sharpie.
Linx wasn’t certain, but he was sure that writing on money like that was illegal, andtechnicallyconsidered defacing government property. Not that he was a rat or anything. He just figured it was better to know the little things that would keep a guy out of the slammer. No reason to deal with the feds over an inclination to use dollar bills as a notepad. That was his philosophy.
“Hey.” Tanner emerged from his elderly groupies. “Do you two want something to drink?”
Linx lifted his fist for a bump. “Yeah—”
“My guest.” The elderly woman who’d had the most dollar bills, a lime green get up, and a hefty Russian accent scrambled toward them.
She didn’t really seem like the scrambling kind. That didn’t stop her. She seemed fragile, but the teeny tiny speck of intuition he’d inherited from his emotionally supportive mother told him that this woman’s spine was pure steel.
Or maybe titanium.
Something strong that didn’t break.
“Drinks. For my guests.” She held up her hand, snapping her fingers at someone behind him. He wasn’t sure who, and he didn’t look because the lady’s presence demanded his full attention.
“I am glad you have come to my party,” the woman continued. “I am Babushka. Brek is a good friend.”
“Hey, Babushka.” Becca gripped Linx’s arm, moving closer as though he were a shield. “We’ve met.”
Babushka gave her a once-over that seemed like a full MRI. “Yes, you are friends with my soon-to-be granddaughter, yes?”
“That’s right,” Becca said.
Her presence so close to him, the scent of her vanilla shampoo, made him wish he’d taken her some place more private. They could have cake anywhere, really.
Not the apartment where she lived over her parents’ garage. That involved way too many opportunities for parental interference. Maybe he should call his agent and have a jet sent out to Denver. He could fly her some place when she had a day off. Someplace private. Someplace where they could hold hands and talk.
