Page 36 of His Favorite Mistake

“Thank you, Mama.” I rose and leaned over to kiss my mother’s papery cheek. I didn’t know if it was my mother’s makeup or if she’d aged before my eyes, but the feel of her skin made my resolve strengthen even more.

Time spun on, whether you were ready or not. It didn’t wait. Ever.

“Don’t thank me.” My mother squeezed my wrist, her gaze flickering to my bracelet before returning to my eyes. “Make yourself proud.”

A couple minutes later, I got into my car and pulled out my phone. I’d needed that support, even if it was only temporary. Like a kid pushing off on my new training wheels, that brief hand at my back was just enough to get me going.

This would nudge me even farther.

“Hi, Taylor. I need a favor. Could you send a VIP ticket for the show tonight to a Mr. Jed Knight?” I rattled off his address. “It’s important.”

Indirectly, Jed had helped me stop hiding. He should be there when I took the first step to being who I truly am. I hoped I wouldn’t regret inviting him.

Hoped with everything I was that he would show.

TWELVE

JED

My life had finally comefull circle. I’d gone from being a hard-edged, take no prisoners detective to standing in the front row of a Peyton Pryor concert.

Lord help me.

The noise and crowds in this place were insane. Why hadn’t I thought to bring earplugs? Maybe I should’ve worn a hoodie to discourage the chipper girls who surrounded me. They kept trying to talk to me as if we were old pals, brought together by our love ofthePeyton Pryor.

Ironically enough, my feelings for the woman on the posters in the lobby of the event center crept uncomfortably close to love, as improbable as it seemed. But not because she sang “Rev Me Up”, the song that the teenager beside me had declared her very favorite song ever.

I couldn’t help smiling. Peyton had done damn well for herself. Perhaps one day she’d begin to appreciate her talent, rather than feel embarrassed by her success.

Like you’re out so loud and proud. You couldn’t even admit to her that you’re a writer.

I hadn’t been in denial about it exactly. It was more that so much of me was still wrapped up in being a cop. I’d thought I had let that part of my past go, but after the night I’d spent with Peyton, I’d realized swiftly that I hadn’t.

Guilt was still eating me alive, still forcing me to deny my needs as a bizarre form of punishment. Being with her had shown me there was another way to live. I’d become chained by my own inhibitions—not sexual, or not entirely sexual anyway—and the time had come to unlock the damn cuffs.

A writer was who I was now.

I’d made mistakes as a cop, but I refused to let them taint the present. Peyton had reminded me of all I’d missed out on by pretending I didn’t have urges beyond so-called vanilla sex. I enjoyed dominance and submission, and I had no reason to shut down that aspect of myself if I found a woman who shared my proclivities.

Strike theif. I was pretty sure I had found the right woman, now I just had to convince her that I was worth taking a chance on. Worthy of her.

I fingered the unused ticket in my jeans pocket. She’d sent me a VIP ticket by courier that afternoon, and I’d been both amused and irritated by the gesture. Did she think I couldn’t pay my own way? I’d already bought my own damn ticket. Not front row, of course—

Because you couldn’t afford it.

Whatever, I’d intended to be there anyway. Did she honestly think I would miss her show? Now that I’d heard her music, it seemed to be everywhere. When I walked into the coffee shop I liked to write at some mornings or shopped at the grocery store, she seemed to play on every speaker. Her sultry voice and her playful smile were on billboards all over the place. Those lively blue eyes would haunt me until the end of my days.

Before me, the curtain rose, and the roar turned deafening. And the eyes that haunted me were suddenly connected with mine, as if she’d sought me out the instant she stepped onstage. My heartbeat picked up pace, its beat drowning out the screams and whistles.

This past week without her had been sheer, inescapable misery. I’d tried to tell myself I was overstating things, that I couldn’t feel this way after one night.

I’d been wrong. I could’ve felt this way about her after one hour. She’d blown into my life like a hurricane and blown out again too soon, leaving everything quiet and still. Desolate. It had felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of my chest with the closing of my front door.

Now that she was in my sights, I could breathe again.

Onstage, she smiled and touched her wrist, a gesture I didn’t understand, then offered her smile to all those that surrounded me. “Good evening, Edgewood! Are you ready to party? I said, are you ready toparty?”

Smiling in spite of myself, I glanced down the front row of yelling, undulating girls, surprised to see two familiar faces. Jared Brooks and Preston Shaw, my old buddies from Syracuse University, along with their women, were standing at the end of the aisle, smiling wide as could be. And lo and behold, they all seemed to be enjoying the music as Peyton started to sing her latest hit, “In Your Eyes.”

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