Page 84 of The Heartstrings of Harry
I looked at those steady brown eyes. I glanced at the bruise on his jaw where Dad had hit him. His face was calm, but I could see the hurt there, tucked just beneath the surface.
“I know, you’re right,” I whispered. “I can’t help but worry.”
Harry leaned forward until our foreheads touched. “Let me do the worrying, okay?”
I smiled. “Okay.”
The entrance opened again, and Astrid stuck her head in, her headset still perched on her head like a crown.
“Ten minutes, darling,” she announced. “Time to get into your zone.” She glanced at Harry, arching one eyebrow. “That’s your cue to leave, big guy.”
Harry gave her a quick nod, then looked back at me. His hand slid up to touch my cheek. “Go knock ’em dead, babe,” he said, voice soft enough that only I could hear it.
Before I could say anything back, he leaned in and kissed me.
It was gentle. Sweet. One soft kiss for luck, but it carried so much more. Like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say out loud into the press of his lips against mine.
When he pulled back, I caught his hand, held it tight for just a second longer.
“Harry,” I whispered. “Promise me.”
His brow furrowed. “Promise you what?”
“After tonight… we’ll find a way. You and me. To be together. No more hiding.”
His eyes softened, and he nodded, squeezing my hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I promise.”
Astrid’s face lit up as though a revelation had just dawned on her. “Oh. My. God.That’sHarry!” Her eyes flicked from me to Harry. “You’reHarry from the text message!”
Harry looked confused. “What text message?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Actually, it’s not nothing at all. I’ll explain later.”
“What text message?” he asked again.
But Astrid already had him by the wrist and was dragging him out. “He’ll tell you later. Time to go, lover boy. It’s show time.”
Harry gave me one last wink, then he and Astrid disappeared through the flap of the marquee.
HARRY
The sky had turnedto gold and violet by the time the crowd really surged in—ten -thousand bodies packed tight against the barricades, a sea of arms waving, phones held high, the air electric with the buzz of anticipation.
I was halfway between the dressing room marquee and the lighting rig when I spotted him.
Andy.
His cap was low, arms crossed as he stood leaning against the security fence at the edge of the perimeter, jaw tight, eyes hard.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
“Andy,” I tried to call over the noise, quickening my pace, weaving past a cluster of stagehands.
He saw me coming, straightened up, then swiftly turned away.
“Andy—wait!” I was close enough for him to hear me over the crowd now.
