Page 218 of Perfect Pitch

My mind blanks. “For the first time in a very long while, I don’t know, Mama.”

“That’s not always a bad thing, kid,” my father says.

I twist my head up to find Mitch’s eyes trained on me and say, “I just know where I want to be.”

“Right here?” he asks.

“Always here,” I correct.

My father pushes to his feet and rolls his eyes. “You two are nauseatingly cute.” He glares at Mitch. “Christ, can we let that be the last time those words ever come out of my mouth?”

“Only if you swear on your remote control you’ll never make me work out to boy bands ever again.”

The room erupts in laughter—including, I’m pleased to note—my father’s. The toll of the last few days, months, has worn through his slick veneer. Now, he’s no longer superstar Beckett Miller. Now, he’s just Dad.

My dad.

Pushing out of Mitch’s embrace, I soon find myself wrapped in his. “I love you, kid.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

He opens his mouth to say more but emotion chokes him. Instead of saying another word, he stomps down the hall. My mother glides up. “I’m going to put your father to bed.”

I groan. “Too much information.”

The ghost of a smile she was sporting curves much wider. “To take a nap, darling.”

Before I can think of any other type of retort, she presses her lips against my cheek and murmurs for my ears alone, “I’m no more than a few feet away.”

After she leaves the room, I drop back on the sofa and into Mitch’s waiting arms. He lifts a hand up and gently strokes one of my long braids until the very ends pass through his fingertips. Then he begins again.

And again.

Until the hundreds of braids on my head have each been soothed by his touch—christened in his protection.

Before I can react, Caleb and Colby enter the room again sporting disturbed expressions. Heartbeat accelerating, I whisper, “Good god, what now?”

Mitch’s fingers tighten in my hair.

After hearing what they have to say, the part of me that’s still in agony over having my entire childhood decimated by a single word begins to shake. The woman who has survived far worse than being called an abomination goes cold.

I consider my options before pushing to my feet. “I don’t want to talk to him here.”

Mitch surges up next to me. “You’re sure?”

Without hesitation, I ask, “When can we leave?”

An expression that can only be called wicked crosses his face. “Whenever you want.”

* * *

Two days later, part of me wishes I hadn’t told my parents where we were going but, as Mitch pointed out so logically, “Do you really want to fly commercial with your face splashed on every newsstand?”

“Do you really want to kiss my ass?” I replied sweetly.

His heartfelt, “Oh yeah,” caused me to have to press my thighs together.

I haven’t spent much time thinking about what I’m going to say when we reach our final destination. I wish I could dredge up the emotions I felt when Caleb crouched before me to say, “Your grandfather’s calling, frantic. He heard the news reports and wants to be here.”

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