Page 47 of When London Snow Falls

Leaning in to peer at the phone, Carys gives a death-grip to the tyrannosaurus in her fist.

“Say hi to Daddy, darling,” Emily encourages, her blond hair falling over her shoulder as she gives Carys a kiss on the cheek.

She tolerates this with only a minor squirm, which means she’s mostly distracted, attention rapt on me for at least a few seconds. I’ll take the window.

“Daddy!”

“Hi, Carys.” A smile stretches across my lips, which is fairly inevitable whenever I see our incredible girl.

“Dino,” she declares with authority, smiling back at me with glee. The toy is shoved against the phone and they’ve been blocked out by a T-Rex and I can’t stop laughing, while Emily tries to sort the dinosaur and Carys out. The phone tumbles on the rug, catching sight of Carys tearing past, laughing.

“Her favorite,” Emily informs me as she picks up the phone, Carys beside her, climbing Emily’s arm. “Say thanks for the dinosaurs.”

“T’ANKS.” Carys grins at me, peering down at the screen.

The phone shifts back to Emily. “Call him. Tell him about the things that’ve happened, if you want a chance at this working out. If he’s what you want.”

Of course he’s what I want, but how do I find the courage?

Chapter Twenty

The problem with getting involved—either peripherally with the vigorous sexing or, God help me, full-on dating, or whatever’s going on—with an up-and-coming rock singer is that his gigs sell out.

At the box office the next day, I beg like a man with nothing left to lose, because Ben’s silence is deafening. I haven’t heard anything all day. Not a peep. Not even an accidental pocket dial. Nothing. It’s a complete disaster. It’s all my fault. Emily’s right.

I’m a jerk.

“Please.” I stare with intent, pleading shamelessly. “I’ll do anything. I mean it. It’s really important. I just need one ticket, man.”

The man shakes his head. He’s in an old Oasis T-shirt, silver-haired. His earlobes are full of metal. “Sorry, mate. Sold out. Halfpenny Rise is the hot ticket tonight.”

“I really need to talk to Ben,” I say.

We both hear the desperation in my voice. Hopefully the sort of desperation that’s appealing enough to manifest tickets out of nowhere from sheer force of will. Or better yet, the sort of desperation that can manifest Ben right here, right now.

He laughs, shaking his head regretfully. “Oh yeah? Who doesn’t want to talk to Ben Campbell? Are you press?”

“Well…yes.” I stand tall, running a hand through my hair to neaten it in an effort to look like a reporter and not like a frantic wild man who’s been slogging through snow and slush.

“Credentials?” he asks patiently, sticking out a hand to take them.

“I left them at home?”

He shakes his head, resolute. “C’mon, mate. I told you the gig’s sold out. Your best bet’s the scalpers tonight.”

I groan, not surprised but disappointed anyway. “All right. Cheers.”

It’ll serve me right to pay through the nose to grovel. Maybe he should be charging for tickets to that upcoming spectacle, a side-show to the gig.

Meanwhile, another snowfall warning’s gone out for London.

When I arrive at The Underground rock club—and pay more than double for a ticket from my café income—the show’s already well underway. Snow’s hit the city again. The wait for the bus was useless, with no hope of the damn things running. I walked two miles in the snow, my leather boots and socks soaked through for my troubles. There was no way I’d miss the gig, though. It’s standing room only, shoulder to shoulder. I get a beer and make my way closer to the stage.

The opening act has already played. Ben’s band tears up the stage like they were born to it. No wonder they’ve been successful—their album is incredible, but seeing them perform is a whole other level. Their sound and presence can’t be captured in a studio recording. Ben’s magic up there.

Lights dazzle and flash with the music: electric yellow and blues and purples vibrate. On stage, Ben stands front and center, blazing on his guitar and his voice soars, otherworldly and strong, leaving me with goose bumps. He’s in head-to-toe black, with a lavender scarf looped loosely around his neck. I can’t help but think of him the other night splayed nude in a riot of colors, bound and immobile, and the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Tonight, it’s that same surrender, where he gives himself over to the music and the performance, like nothing else matters in the universe. There’s nothing held back.

There’s a big voice in his slight body. Every molecule of him is devoted to music when he performs. He’s so present that there’s no way I could look away, even if I wanted to.

---