Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
We talked about the first concerts we’d ever been to. The best and worst experiences we’d had when performing. Favorite song to sing.
“Easy.” Troy set down his nearly empty pint of beer. “‘Power.’”
It was a Saturday night and the restaurant was bustling, but the sound faded away. I gave him a dubious look. “All the songs in the world, and you’re picking that one?”
“You wrote it,” he said simply. “And you wrote it for me.”
“I did.” I licked my lips to stop myself from mentioning I wrote it about the way I felt about him.
“Can we talk business for a second?” He leaned forward, and his eyes turned serious. “I want ‘Power’ to be my closing song when I perform. Is that okay with you?”
Breath caught in my lungs. He was only allowed three songs in his set, because Stella already had an opening act she was touring with.
“We’d need to get Ardy and Stella to—”
“Yeah, I know. What I’m asking,” he said, “is if everyone else signs off on it, will you?”
Didn’t he know this question was silly? That he didn’t even need to ask? “Yes.” I smiled. “If you want to sing it—I’d be honored.”
Our phones were face down on the table, and when it vibrated, we both flipped ours over. He glanced at my screen and saw the name Clark at the top. To his credit, Troy attempted not to react, but I could see how irritated he was.
I sucked in a breath. “Okay, so you’re a young’un . . . How do I block a number?”
Relief swept through him and was quickly replaced by a victorious smile.
I spent Sunday recovering from the marathon sex I’d had with Troy and dodging Jenna’s questions about how my date had gone.
“Great,” was all I said.
By Monday I was back to being consumed by my job. There were fall festivals I was trying to get two of my clients booked into, a debut album launch for a singer-songwriting duo I’d signed in January, and an international tour of a bluegrass band on my list to help set up.
On top of all that, on Tuesday there was a contract sitting on my desk which had come over from Warbler’s legal attorney. I spent my lunch break reviewing it, and the packaging Warbler was putting together for Troy’s set. He’d sat for headshots this morning and texted me that it went well.
I left the office a little before five, grabbed the mail from my mailbox when I got home, and sorted it as I walked toward the house. My footsteps slowed as I tore open the envelope with my homeowner’s association logo in the corner, dreading its contents before even reading the letter. Ever since Judy Maligner, my neighbor two doors down, had been elected president, the HOA had become a headache to deal with.
“What now?” I groaned.
When I read the contents of the letter, I got so angry, I turned and headed for her house, cutting across the Lowes’ lawn and marching up her front porch steps. I stabbed my finger on the doorbell and crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for her to answer.
Like me, Judy was a relatively young divorcee who lived alone, but that was where our similarities stopped. She’d been married to a wealthy attorney, and the rumor was she simply lived off her cushy alimony. She didn’t have a job, other than making ridiculous rules for her neighbors.
Either Judy wasn’t home, or she was purposefully not coming to the door when she saw it was me, clutching her letter in my angry fist. I sighed, both impatient and frustrated.
“This is bullshit,” I said, not caring if she heard.
I stomped off her porch and was halfway back to my house when I heard water splashing, music playing, and conversations coming from the Lowes’ backyard. Was Dr. Lowe having a pool party?
I went to the gate on the side and stuck my head over the top. Sure enough, there were several people on floats in the pool or lounging on the deck with drinks in hand. Most of them looked to be Preston’s age. Dr. Lowe was close by, manning the grill while wearing only his swim trunks.
Since he was a trauma surgeon at the hospital, it was rare he was home. I needed to take the opportunity to talk to him while I could.
“Hey, Greg,” I called. “You got a second?”
Greg’s gaze lifted from the hamburgers and he spotted me through the haze of the grill. “Sure, come on in.”
I opened the gate and followed the landscaped stone steps toward him.
He flipped one of the burgers confidently with a spatula. This was a man who was an expert with a tool in his hand, although typically it was a scalpel.
He took a sip from his can of beer and then put his focus on me. “What’s up?”