Page 146 of Perfect Pitch

I’m willing to try, to fix what’s been left to fate.

I hope that he’ll see, the beauty in what could be.

That love could be the thing to set us all free.

After I’d finished the song, Mitch stepped over to the piano and brushed his lips against mine. He didn’t push for more and I didn’t offer it. It was as if we both agreed the homestead wasn’t our place—it was theirs.

Now, as we walk around my grandfather’s home to his rental car, I contemplate all the different bonds that have to be repaired.

Mitch’s fingers squeeze mine. I catch his cool green eyes on mine. Not this one, I think, the ache in my soul easing.

Nothing could change the bond I have with Mitch.

* * *

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

You know what I’m having a craving for right now? Barbecue and potato salad. Blame Food Network. They were having a marathon on the best barbecue places in the nation.

Here’s a top ten list of spots in the city for you to order some catered if you don’t want to go to the trouble of firing up those smokers in the middle of winter.

—Fab and Delish

The next day, Beckett approaches me as I’m lounging on the couch, flipping through my iPad for last-minute Christmas gifts. He asks me what I have planned for the day.

“Nothing, why?”

“Let’s do something.”

“Like what?”

His punts. “You choose.”

I stretch. Even though he’s not in my line of sight, I feel Mitch’s eyes on me. “Too bad the rodeo’s not in town.”

He hums in agreement.

I perk up. “We could go to Ralph’s!”

Beckett chuckles. “Well, we could.”

I sit up excited.

“But we’re not. Your mother would have my balls, Austyn.”

I flop back and stick my tongue out at him before teasing, “And here I thought you’d be the more fun parent.”

He’s appalled by my statement. “I’m fun. I’m loads of fun.” His eyes flare as they stare at a point over my shoulder. “Kane, Mitch. Tell her. I’m fun.”

“Loads,” Mitch says drolly.

“Especially when he changes the music to boy bands when you’re working out.”

Beckett glares at the two men while I outright laugh. Surging to my feet, I walk into the foyer to grab my purse. “Come on, Beckett. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“Where at?”

“It’s a surprise, but if you enjoy traditional Texas fare—‍”

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