Page 85 of The Perfect Melody

Austin gives me an appraising look as he hands over my phone. “Are you OK? You’ve gone really pale.”

Sure enough, when I bring up my call log, Miranda’s number is at the top of the list. When I swipe the screen away, I notice Ant has sent me a text.

Ant:

I can’t be sure, but I think Miranda’s gone through my phone. She stopped by the house again to ask more questions about where you’d gone. I left my phone on the coffee table like an idiot while I went to fetch her a bottle of water. When I came back, she barely stayed five minutes, and she looked too happy when she left. Wanted to warn you just in case. I’m sorry.

Ignoring Austin’s growing concern, I type out a quick reply, grateful he didn’t see Ant’s text. That would have only led to more questions I’m not ready to answer.

Me:

She did, but it’s OK. A friend answered my phone when she called and told her she had the wrong number. That should throw her off the scent for now.

To my surprise, my phone chimes with an immediate response from Ant. He must really have been stressing out over this.

Ant:

I’ll delete all our messages in case she somehow gets hold of my phone again. Do you need me to fly out there?

Me:

Not yet. Can you keep an eye on Miranda?

Consider it done.

You’re not coming back to Nashville, are you?

No. Nashville isn’t home anymore.

Forcing a smile onto my face that probably looks as brittle as I feel, I retake my seat. “I’m fine.” Even if Miranda somehow gets her hands on Ant’s phone again, he still thinks I’m at Liam and Bailey’s place in London, and it’s not like Austin will have answered the phone by announcing our location. She might figure out that I’m in England, but nobody except for Liam and Bailey knows where I really am. My secret is still safe.

Guilt gnaws at me—I should tell Austin everything right now, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not ready for this to be over. While I think he’ll understand my need for secrecy, there’s every chance he won’t look at me the same way once he knows the truth. Austin’s a private person, and being with me means being thrust into the public eye. Plus, if he knows I’m Melody Night, there’s no way that he’ll perform with me at Bowman’s. He’s too damn good to keep hiding his gift away.

That settles it. I’m going to wait until right after we perform together, then I’ll tell him everything. “Shall we take it from the top?”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Austin

It’s nearlythe end of June, and my performance with Cassie at Bowman’s is happening this Saturday night. For the most part, things between the two of us have been great. We’ve been rehearsing, going on dates and walks, and having nights in where we curl up on my sofa to watch each other’s favourite films. Every time we work a closing shift together, she comes home with me instead of staying at the B&B.

A couple of weeks ago, I even gave Cassie a key to my place. Now, some nights when I’m working and she isn’t, she hangs out here rather than in her room at The Dragonfly. Getting to crawl into my bed beside the woman who holds my heart in her hands after a long shift is the perfect way to end a day. She still stays at the B&B occasionally and, on those nights, I miss her even though she’s barely a five-minute drive away. Her secrets still hang between us, but I’m doing my best not to dwell on that. Cassie’s built a full life for herself here—I trust she’s not going anywhere.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I’m pleased to see the sky is the same beautiful bright blue it was when I woke up this morning. There isn’t a cloud in sight, which I’m sure the recent influx of visitors to Pine Grove is happy about. Tourist season iswell and truly underway, and the town has seen a real uptick in holidaymakers this past week.

Cassie stands next to me, squeezing lemon juice into the bowl of coleslaw she’s preparing while I finish slicing burger buns for the homemade patties waiting in the fridge. Knowing how nervous I am about performing at Bowman’s on Saturday, she suggested we invite a few of our close friends over for a barbecue in my back garden. The plan is for us to play the two songs we’ve been rehearsing for everyone after dinner. Spending the afternoon in the kitchen with her preparing the food for this evening has helped take my mind off my nerves somewhat. It’s impossible to feel anything but content with her working alongside me. It’s like I’m being shown a snapshot of the future we could have together.

“Where do you want this?” Cassie asks, holding up the large bowl. A few of her coffee-brown curls have escaped the haphazard bun she tossed her hair up in before we started cooking, and her delicate wire-frame glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose. She looks beautiful.

“Next to the salad, please,” I reply, gesturing to the free spot on the round kitchen table.

I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of her leaning over—her denim shorts fit her sinfully well—when the doorbell rings.

“Shit, I’m not ready.” Cassie wipes her hands on a tea towel, then yanks the elastic out of her hair. She’s frantically finger-combing the dark strands into some semblance of order when I step closer and gently tug her closer by her belt loops.

“Relax. You look perfect.” Leaning down, I kiss her softly.

Cassie rests her head against my chest, circling her arms around my waist. “It’s our first time hosting as a couple. I want it to go well.”