They cheer louder. Someone shouts my name again. Someone else yells, “Violin girl forever!”
Cal pulls me into a one-armed hug at the mic and says something I can’t hear over the noise. I laugh anyway because the mood in this room is so good it’s almost tangible, like you could reach out and hold it.
I shake hands with the other band members, including the woman on bass and the other fiddle player, who spent an hour playing beside me and kept grinning every time we hit a good part, which was often.
I turn toward the wings.
Griffin is still there.
He looks like he’s been punched in the chest in the best possible way. His eyes track me like he hasn’t blinked since the first note.
“I did it!” I squeal as I practically sprint to him.
“You did it,” he says, so full of pride that I feel a lump form in my throat.
Then he grabs me and lifts me clean off the ground, arms tight around my waist, and kisses me so hard I lose the breath I had left. My fingers curl into his hair, my legs instinctively wrap around him, and the room disappears. It’s just him, his mouth, his hands, his body steady against mine.
I break the kiss on a gasp, forehead against his. “Griff?”
“Yeah?”
“Do we really have to sleep in a tent tonight?”
He laughs against my mouth. “I booked a hotel.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “You got a what?”
“A hotel,” he repeats, proud of himself. “A bed. A shower. Walls. A door that locks.”
My entire soul lifts. “God bless you.”
He chuckles, adjusts his grip, and carries me straight out the back exit while the band keeps cheering behind us.
I don’t look back.
I don’t need to.
I’m exactly where I want to be.
Forty-Four
Griffin
The hotel room is quiet, apart from the hum of the air conditioning. We’ve already taken a shower, washed off the last of the festival dust, and collapsed onto the bed for twenty minutes because we’re exhausted.
But I’m wide awake now.
Piper has been in the bathroom for twenty-two minutes. I’m not counting, but I’ve been staring at the ceiling for fifteen of them, listening to the town wind down outside. Tomorrow, we drive west. We’ve been heading toward home all week, the invisible line getting shorter each day.
I’ve been trying not to think about it. I haven’t been succeeding.
What I do know is that tonight exists, she’s behind that door, and my patience is running out. I want my hands on her more than I want sleep or oxygen.
“Piper,” I call out. “You dead in there?”
Her voice, a little breathless, says, “No.”
“You sure?”
