Page 51 of Perfect Pitch

He glances down at the phone lying on the counter in front of him. “I’m not so certain about that.”

Coming around his side of the counter, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Mitch is back.”

To my credit, I don’t display a reaction on the outside. I manage a nonchalant, “Oh?”

He’s very obviously relieved. “I was worried you were going to be upset.”

Moving over to the fridge, I ask, “About?”

“Mitch?”

I reach inside for some creamer. Dumping in a bunch, I place the carton back in the refrigerator ensuring my mask is still in place. “The coming and going is his job, right? It’s not me?”

Trevor barely masks his look of pity. Quickly, I morph my expression into a blank one. As his features relax, I think, I should have been an actor, not a musician.

“He asked about you.”

“That’s nice.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say, Trev?” I demand.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just...”

“Just what?”

“There’s something about you two.” He smiles crookedly.

I lean up and press my lips to his cheek. “You’re sweet.”

He blushes. “Thanks.”

Why can’t I fall for a nice, sweet guy like Trevor? Well, since love’s a game played by bruising a person’s heart, it’s probably a good thing I’m not harboring feelings for the male equivalent of my best friend, I think with a touch of amusement.

Trevor frowns. “Why are you even up?”

I yawn. “Not really sure. I think I’m going to indulge in a day of pampering though.”

“While the rest of us slave away on your behalf,” he jokes.

Immediately, I feel guilty. “Wait. Doing what? Can I help?”

He walks around the counter and gives me a hug. “You work hard, Austyn. Never doubt that. Now, go indulge yourself. I have a few things to check out.”

* * *

I’ve just dragged myself from an incredibly luxurious bubble bath followed by a shower where I shaved every inch of my body. My cell phone pings with an incoming email right as I’m waging all-out war against my wet hair with a specialty brush that’s supposed to reduce the breakage.

If, by breakage, they mean me hurling it at the mirror in frustration, the manufacturer should be sued for false advertising.

Giving up for a moment, I reach for my phone and open my message. “It’s probably just Mama confirming her flight information.”

Then I drop the phone when I see the sender’s name.

Quickly, I scramble across the steamy bathroom floor for the device, praying I didn’t shatter the screen. “Please, oh please,” I breathe.

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