Page 108 of Perfect Pitch

She wraps her arms around me and looks me square in the eye. “Thank you for finally sharing this part of yourself with me.”

“Thank you for listening.” I lean down, capture her lips beneath my own, and pray that she’ll remember everything in the explosion of her anger in the upcoming days because the clock’s ticking until everyone finds out the truth behind why Paige Kensington hid her and Beckett Miller’s child.

* * *

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Don’t give him a big head @CuteandRich3. He’s bad enough.

—Jacques Yves, Celebrity Blogger

“Do certain parts of the country never cool off?” I bitch at Trevor when we get out of the car at the venue in San Antonio.

“We can’t dial our weather to be Palm Springs,” he snipes back.

I frown. “Is everything okay?” I haven’t seen much of him since Mitch snatched me away from Grabby Hands in the bar in Milwaukee. And between airports, checking equipment, and nine million other chores with flying commercial, this is the first we’ve really had a chance to talk.

“Yeah, fine. Just tired.” He blushes and looks away.

I purse my lips at his tells. “Oh? Did you order up something milky in the Cream City?”

Of course, I ask that just as Trevor’s taken a drink of water. Therefore it comes out of his nose as he chokes on laughter. After giving me a nasty side-eye, Trevor mops up his face. “Wrong. That was just so wrong.”

I loop my arm through his and lean against his shoulder. “The comment or the night?”

“I refuse to answer on grounds it may incriminate me.”

“Spoilsport. But seriously. Does this heat ever let up?”

“I’ve never been here. I... wait. Is that you or me?” he asks as a quiet chime sounds.

I’m already fishing my phone from my jeans. “It’s Mama.” I check the text and find she’s arrived at our hotel.

Mama:

Come up, no matter how late, whenever you’re done with your show.

Nerves flap like pterodactyls in my stomach. “She’s here.”

He hooks an arm around my waist tugging me against him. “I’d love to see her if there’s time.”

Considering what we have to discuss and how late our conversation is going to start, I have no idea if that will be possible. Still, I give an absent nod and agree, “If there’s time.”

The two of us watch as the local crew unloads the van of equipment backstage. Once the last case has been rolled inside, we follow and begin the process of setting up my equipment so a sound check can be run before tonight’s show.

* * *

Riding high on the pulse of the crowd, part of me feels like I could swing from the hotel chandeliers as I make my way down to my mother’s suite. I know I killed it tonight.

Still, my palms are sweating as I approach her door. In her text earlier, she said, “Come up, no matter how late,” so I’m taking her at her word.

It’s after one-thirty when I rap my knuckles against the door. After she cracks the door to check it’s me, she flings the door open, and I crash into her arms.

“Tonight went well?” she murmurs.

“Fabulous. I feel like I’m floating—that I have a million bubbles inside of me.”

She pulls back and her lips twitch. “You haven’t been drinking champagne again, have you?”

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