Page 88 of That Reunited Feeling

“Can’t argue with the weather, though,” Hannah says, looking up at a big dark cloud that threatens to obliterate the blue sky.

“Er, the fires?”

“And the earthquakes,” Hermann adds.

“See.” I drop both hands. “I’m almost running out of fingers without even trying.”

Hannah ignores me. “Have you spent much time in LA, Hermann?”

“Nope. But Tom complains about it so much whenever he has to go there that I’ve got the gist.”

Her face brightens as she turns her attention back to me. “Oh, so you’re in LA regularly for work?”

“Used to be. When I got more staff, it was one of the first things I delegated.”

“Oh.” She sighs and looks back up at the dark cloud.

My stomach lurches. It’s like she’s drifting away from me already, before she’s even gotten on that plane to California.

Just as I’m about to put my arm around her, she takes her phone out of her bag. “Need to remind Dylan he still has to do his homework even though I’m not there.” She taps away, then a soft smile blossoms on her lips. “He says his friends thought he was super cool when Maggie picked him up from school in her old truck.”

Every time she thinks of Dylan, her face takes on a magical expression—full of the purest form of love.

I might not have her for long, so I sure as hell don’t want any distance between us for the short time we have. As soon as she’s finished texting, I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

“Look.” I pull her toward me and direct her attention out of the window on my side. “The answer to your question.”

I point at the world-famous Victorian redbrick, circular Royal Coliseum Hall.

“That’s where we’re going?” She looks equal parts disappointed and puzzled. But, more importantly, she leans into me. “Are we going to see an orchestra? Or an opera? Or…something?”

Her body against mine charges my heart like power charges a battery. “Nope. See that sign there?”

I point at a tall purple-and-orange poster headed withGala night in aid of Nordoff Robbins Music Therapy.

She scans the list of performers below the heading, her eyes getting wider the farther down she gets, until she reaches the kicker in larger letters at the bottom.

Her head snaps to me, her mouth wide open in a silent gasp or scream or squeal of joy.

I inwardly heave a massive sigh of relief. Perfect. This is exactly how I’d hoped she’d react the trillion times I’ve run this scenario through my mind.

Her wide eyes are filled with a childlike joy. “We’re going to see Four Thousand Medicines?”

“And the other half dozen bands who’re on before them—none of whom are to be sniffed at either.”

Hermann drives us closer to the entrance.

“Yeah, look at those names.” She points at the sign, a joyful combination of surprise and excitement written all over her face. “And all on the same stage on the same night.” The excitement buzzes from her like bees around a sunflower.

“They’re all big supporters of the charity. It’s a one-off fundraising night. And you can meet them afterward if you like.”

“No!” She slaps my chest so hard it forces the air from my lungs.

I gulp in a breath. “You don’t want to?”

“Hell, no!” You’d think I’d just asked her if she wanted her toenails pulled out with pliers. “That would beawful.”

Okay, so this is very confusing. “Why would it be awful? You don’t even want to meet the Medicines? You fucking love them.”

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