Page 38 of Perfect Pitch

Trevor’s eyes flick to the side. “Actually, he did.”

I follow his gaze and find a vase of blue orchids on the kitchen counter. There’s a card sticking out of the top. Trevor starts, “I didn’t mean to read the note, but it wasn’t in an envelope.”

Gravitating over to them, I say, “That’s fine.” I pluck the card from the plastic stick and read it.

It’s two words.

Forgive me?

No signature. No name. Just those words.

I bow my head against the overwhelming memories of dinner the other night before Mitch’s insecurities ruined it. “He seemed to like me,” I whisper aloud.

“Who wouldn’t?”

I gently touch one of the deep blue petals, not wanting to damage the delicate petals but needing to feel something that made Mitch think of me.

“Are you okay?” Trevor’s voice intrudes.

“I’m fine. Fine.”

Trevor comes up next to me and drapes an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side. “It only has to be as complicated as you make it, Austyn.” His oblique reference to Mitch wedges him in between us.

Like he wasn’t placed there already.

I step away from the beautiful gesture and try to refocus us on the music—the reason I’m here. It’s certainly not to open myself up to Mitch Clifton’s machinations. Reaching for the papers I’d tossed to the coffee table moments ago, I query, “What are your thoughts on this contract?”

I lean my body into his and smile brilliantly.

His return one is just as radiant. “Well, let’s take a look. Shall we?”

And we do just that.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It’s the time of year when I start dodging my family’s calls. I know my husband and I are going to be asked home for the holidays.

Someone save us.

—Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger

I answer the call on the first ring. “Charlie.”

“What are you doing at home answering your phone? You should be out with a woman that interests you on a beautiful night like this.”

Dryly, I respond. “I am neither at home nor am I alone.” Let the old badger chew on that for a moment.

I mouth to Kane, My uncle. He nods before stepping a few feet away to give me a measure of privacy while we wait for Beckett and Erzulie outside the home of his guitar player, Mick Ceron, and drummer, Carly Stoliday, in the city. I give mental thanks they were invited to dinner with the duo to plan some sort of event for Wildcard instead of hitting Redemption.

“Well, since I just got off the phone with your brother, I can only assume you’re working?”

“Trying to.” My dry tone must go over his head—or he selectively chooses to ignore it—because he launches into a long spiel about an upcoming barbecue in Collyer I have to attend. I take mental note of the date so I can arrange time off. Then Charlie starts bemoaning the fact his “adopted” family has already started giving him great-grandchildren. “When are the people I’m actually related to going to settle down and give me little ones to bounce on my knee?”

At this point, I outright laugh at him, the purpose of his call, and the poor attempt at subterfuge. “It’s a good thing you retired, old man. Your skills are slipping.”

He becomes affronted. “You don’t think I could come out of retirement tomorrow and kick your ass?”

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