Page 60 of Rockstar Daddy's Second Chance

He reaches out, tracing the curve of my face with his fingers. “You have no idea how much that meant to me. To all the guys.”

I lean into his touch, letting his words wash over me. “I just want you to be happy.”

“You do that every day, Kendrick,” he murmurs, his hand lingering against my cheek. “Even when you don’t realize it.”

We sit there for a moment, the weight of unspoken emotions filling the space between us. It’s a quiet kind of intimacy, the kind that doesn’t need grand gestures or declarations. Just being together is enough.

Twenty-Eight

Cass

The sun streams through the open windows of the beach house, the salty breeze carrying with it the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I’m laughing at something Pixie said, her pink-striped dark hair shimmering in the sunlight as she tosses it over her shoulder. She’s perched on the edge of the couch, an oversized pair of sunglasses sliding down her nose, even though we’re inside. Typical Pixie—dramatic, loud, and utterly unfiltered. But beneath all that flair, she’s good company when she’s not putting on her stage persona.

“Seriously, Cass,” Pixie says between laughs, “you should have seen Derrick’s face when I told him I wasn’t doing the L.A. gig. It was like someone canceled Christmas. Priceless.”

“You’re going to drive him to an early retirement,” I reply, smirking. “Not that I’d mind.”

The front door creaks open, and Kendrick’s voice carries through the room. “Cass? Cassidy?”

The moment Kendrick steps into the living room, her gaze lands on Pixie. Her smile falters, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. Pixie notices immediately, of course, and flashes one of her trademark grins—equal parts charm and challenge.

“Well, if it isn’t the mysterious Kendrick,” Pixie says, standing and extending a hand. “The woman who’s managed to tame Cass Wild. I’m impressed.”

Kendrick doesn’t take the hand, crossing her arms instead. “Pixie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” Pixie says breezily, clearly unfazed by the tension.

“Depends who’s talking,” Kendrick replies, her tone cool.

I step between them, chuckling awkwardly. “Alright, let’s not scare off my guest, okay?” I glance at Kendrick, hoping to ease the tension. “Pixie’s… an acquired taste, but she grows on you. I promise.”

Kendrick raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Instead, she gives me a pointed look and jerks her head toward the deck. “Cass? A word?”

I follow her outside, sliding the glass door shut behind us. The warm breeze does little to cool the storm brewing in Kendrick’s eyes.

“Why is she here?” Kendrick asks, crossing her arms tightly.

“Pixie stopped by to say hi,” I explain. “She’s harmless, Kendrick. Her whole persona—the hair, the attitude—it’s just an act. Underneath, she’s actually pretty nice.”

Kendrick’s frown deepens. “She doesn’t seem harmless. She seems like trouble.”

I sigh, stepping closer to her. “I know how she comes off, but trust me, Pixie isn’t what you think. She’s a performer, like me. The stage persona is loud, but she’s just a friend.”

Kendrick studies me for a long moment, then glances back at the house. Through the glass, we can see Cassidy sitting on the couch next to Pixie, whispering something that makes Pixie laugh. At least those two seem to be getting along.

“I don’t like it,” Kendrick mutters.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I promise, brushing a hand down her arm. “But Pixie’s not the enemy, okay? Just give her a chance.”

Reluctantly, Kendrick nods, though I can tell she’s not convinced. We head back inside, and the tension between them lingers like a storm cloud. Cassidy glances up at us, her excitement dimming slightly at Kendrick’s expression. Then, she suddenly smiles, and it practically lights up the room.

A week later, Kendrick joins me for a small performance at a cozy, intimate venue out of town. It’s a private event, mostly industry people and a handful of fans who managed to snag tickets. The low lighting and soft chatter create a relaxed atmosphere as I take the stage, strumming my guitar and letting the music fill the room. Kendrick and Cassidy sit near the back. Their presence is something I’ve come to rely on.

As I finish my set, I catch sight of Pixie backstage, her neon hair unmistakable even in the dim light. She waves, a grin on her face, and I nod in acknowledgment. Derrick is nearby, nursing a drink and scanning the room like he’s mentally calculating profits.

After my set, Pixie takes the stage. She’s dressed more subdued than usual. Her pink-striped dark hair falls softly around her shoulders. She sits on a lone stool in the spotlight. She looks out at the crowd and then leans toward the microphone. “This is a new song for me. You’re the first to hear it. So, enjoy everybody.”

We hear the first few notes as her backup musician begins to strum his guitar, and the room quiets as she begins to sing.

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