Page 91 of Rumor Has It

Dillon picks up his plate and brings it to the sink. “Anything you need before I go?”

“Steve’s outside. Would you mind asking him to take the trash out?”

“I can do it.”

“Thanks, Dillon. And for what you said, too. I don’t want you to think I was ignoring you.” Maybe accepting the compliment is easier from someone I’m around often.

“I only spoke the truth.”

Chapter Thirty-six

CASSIDY

“I’m going to bring Aria home with me to visit when Isaiah goes to Austin,” I tell my mama.

“Isaiah is okay with that?”

“Yes.” I nod into the camera.

The baby and I going to Kingsbrier for a few days while Isaiah has to perform for the awards show makes more sense than us sitting around the bus, bored and waiting for him to return.

“Is everything okay? Are you homesick?”

“Mama, we FaceTime or text every day during Aria’s nap. It’s not that I don’t want to give you a huge hug. But I hardly have time to miss you.”

“Well, I miss you and I can’t wait to give you a big hug. Daddy, too.” My mother replies wistfully. “I’m glad you’re having fun, though. It’s really impressive how much sight-seeing you’ve been doing in between shows and I suppose cooking and taking care of Aria makes the day go by fast.”

“It does.” I’m always tired around the time that Isaiah takes the stage.

“I remember how exhausting having a young family was. Go rest before you lose your chance. I love you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“I love you, too.” I press the X and tiptoe into the bedroom, as not to wake Aria, and slip my phone on the charger.

My laptop sits on the bed, waiting for me. I recline on the messy sheets and my fingers begin clicking over the keyboard.

In my spare time, I’m recording Benita’s tried and true recipes and the variations I’ve made to them. I’m not sure what I’ll do once I’ve cataloged the fragile cards. However, I won’t have to worry if the originals get lost to time, and the project keeps my mind off of whether anyone on tour is spreading gossip and Ben telling me I’m “good” for Isaiah—Not that I believe otherwise, I simply could have done without the conversation altogether.

Outside the tiny windows, I hear the commotion before I see Isaiah’s shadow. It could take another five minutes for him to get on the bus, or fifty, depending on who stops him on the way back from his workout.

My bet’s on Vespa. I haven’t had to endure Isaiah’s personal assassin in my space for any extended period since his mother called—thank goodness for small favors—and that was at least three cities ago. Vespa prefers relaxing on the band’s bus and marking her territory in arena dressing rooms, where she conducts business.

I like it, too. It keeps the bus feeling homey, like a sanctuary. When we step outside, we flip a switch and the work begins. Isaiah as a country music celebrity and me as the woman his fans lie in wait for to screw up. And the sad truth is I’d fear tripping over my words, or my feet, far less if the queen of black pantsuits was on my side the way she’s on her boss’s.

Yet, in the months since Vespa first saw me as a threat, it’s become apparent that asking for everyone to get along won’t happen.

There’s a quick rap on the window. Two soft knocks. Isaiah’s signal to me he’ll be another ten minutes.

Aria grunts in her sleep. I shift to peek at her in the portable crib wedged between the wall and the foot of the bed. Then I remove another recipe card from the box and scan it with my phone. The image pops up on my computer screen. I make a copy and import it into the document I’m editing.

The bedroom door opens.

“Monty’s showering at the gym. Go grab yourself a snack from craft services. We’re good here,” Isaiah says to Steve as he slips in.

Breathing heavily, he flicks the lock and wedges his hands on the waistband of his track shorts. His shirt is damp.

“Why are you out of breath?” I whisper.

“Ran back here to coordinate a schedule change for the country music awards show with Vespa. How long has she been out?” Isaiah kicks his chin at the crib.

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