Page 90 of Perfect Pitch

Jerking the wheel a bit, the tires run over the bumps along the side of the road to keep sleepy drivers awake. “You’ve never asked her about him?”

“Oh, I’ve asked, but Mama wouldn’t share while I was underage. Said there were some things I just shouldn’t know until I was better equipped to handle them.”

Such as your father may possibly be the most famous rockstar on the planet? Before I can contemplate how to drop this bomb on her, she goes on, “I didn’t have time this visit—with playing Redemption and all—but I plan on asking her when she comes up for the holidays.”

“You’re taking this awfully well.”

“If there’s one thing she does exceptionally, it’s love.”

“Not all parents do.”

Her face softens. “Trev mentioned yours weren’t the greatest.”

“And that’s my brother for you—understatement of the century.”

“He’s optimistic.”

“And I’m Captain Pessimism?”

“If the shoe fits,” she singsongs.

“Size thirteen,” I inform her blandly.

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to make the shoe fit, make it the right size.”

Austyn bursts into laughter that echoes through the vehicle. “One more question before I drop the subject.”

“If you must.”

I reach over and give her knee a quick squeeze. “Was it rough growing up without a father?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shoulder jerk upward. “For all I know, he’s an axe murderer doing time.”

Or she’s afraid to break your heart by telling you.

Austyn’s silent. “I think it’s time for you to answer a few questions as well.”

“Deal,” I answer without hesitation.

* * *

“It’s the truth.” I’m trying my damnedest to keep my laughter back.

My remark about how I’m closer in age to Austyn’s mother than the woman by my side was met with Austyn’s outright laughter before she drawled, “You couldn’t handle the original. You can barely deal with me.”

“You’re no one’s copy, Austyn.”

She flushes at my words. Flustered, she brings us back around to my comment about Paige Kensington being only seven years my senior to Austyn’s ten years my junior. “If we go by maturity math, that’s not the case.”

“Maturity math?”

“All men act between six to ten years younger or twenty years older than their actual ages depending on the situation. Women are forced to act older to compensate,” Austyn explains sagely.

“Bullshit,” I say succinctly.

My skin heats when her laughter ricochets through the interior of the vehicle. She twists in her seat to face me. “How about we play a quick game?”

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