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one. And as she grinned up at him, looking mischievous and happy and absolutely solid, he promised himself he was never going to make her cry again. Promised himself that he was never going to make her or Jared or Ryder or Quinn worry about him ever again. They deserved better than that…and maybe, so did he.
Chapter Twenty
When she got back to her apartment, Poppy found a box waiting for her at the concierge’s desk. It was from Waterloo Records, the big indie music store in town, so she carried it upstairs, figuring it was for the label. It was addressed to her, but if Caleb had ordered something, he might have put her name on it, since she was in town.
Still, the explanation didn’t sit particularly well with her, so as soon as she got upstairs, she found a knife and slit the box open…and nearly had a stroke as she pulled out one first edition album after another. All classic rock. All rare. All on vinyl.
The Beatles. The Rolling Stones. KISS. Cream. Queen. Bruce Springsteen. Led Zeppelin. The Who.
Each album was rarer and more expensive than the last.
Convinced now that this was some kind of gift for her father that had been sent to the wrong address, she found the card at the bottom of the box. Pulling it out, she expected some kind of kiss up note from Waterloo, asking her dad to consider them for future signings or whatever.
What she found instead…what she found instead had her hands shaking and tears blooming in her eyes.
To Poppy,
I went looking for a song that reminded me of you, and instead found two dozen that all say what I want to say better than I ever could.
Thanks for last night. It meant a lot to me. Wyatt
At the bottom of the note was a playlist, one or two songs listed from each of the albums he’d sent her. As she read the titles, the tears she’d been struggling to hold in check overflowed and ran down her cheeks.
“Beth” from KISS.
“Lady” from Styx.
“You’re My Best Friend” from Queen.
“If I Fell” from The Beatles.
That was the song that did it, that took her from tearing up to ugly sobbing. For long seconds, she just stood there, shoulders shaking, with the playlist in one hand and The Beatles album in the other.
Wyatt had done this for her. Wyatt, who thought he was a loser. Who thought he didn’t have anything to give. Who thought all of them would be better off without him. Wyatt had done this. Just to make her happy.
No one had ever done something this elaborate for her before…and until she’d opened the box, it had never even occurred to her what she was missing. She’d spent so much of her life chasing her father’s approval, trying to placate journalists and band management and label execs and temperamental musicians, that the idea of someone doing something for her, just because it made her happy—just because she mattered—was foreign to her.
This and a song written exclusively for her? How could she help but fall for Wyatt? Wounded as he was, messed up as he’d been when he’d left her apartment that morning…and still he’d done this.
She picked up her phone to call him, but decided against it when she saw the time. He was probably still in rehearsals with the band. After firing off a quick text instead—one that expressed her intense pleasure with the gift and her desire to show her appreciation with sexual favors—she crossed to the state-of-the-art stereo in the corner of the room and was thrilled to see it still had the turntable she’d added to it a couple of years ago when she’d been in town for South by Southwest.
As she put on Something New, she noticed the jewel case from Smoke and Mirrors’ latest CD laying next to the CD player. As she stared at it, an idea came to her. It was insane, ludicrous even, and yet…and yet, she couldn’t get it out of her head.
It would be perfect. Absolutely perfect. If her father didn’t have an actual stroke. And have her committed to an insane asylum. And that was only if Caleb was willing to step up and ask him…
Knowing there was no way she’d be able to relax until she at least tried, Poppy pulled out her cell phone and dialed her brother. The second he came on the line, she blurted out, “I need you to do me a favor.”
Caleb’s long-suffering sigh came through the phone loud and clear. “Aren’t I already doing you a favor keeping Dad off your ass while you’re in Austin? After what happened during the conference call yesterday—and the way Shaken Dirty have sicced their lawyers on us—that has to count for something.”
“And here I thought I was doing you a favor, since you’re the one who sent me down here to babysit a rock star when you didn’t want the job.”
“I already told you. It’s not that I didn’t want the job. It’s that I knew you’d be better at it than I would be.”
She made sure her tone conveyed just how hard she was rolling her eyes. “Kissing up will get you nowhere.”
“I’m not kissing up!” he answered with mock indignation. “Besides, if anyone should be kissing up, it’s you. You’re the one who called me for a favor, after all.”
“Yes, well, it’s a favor that will benefit all of us, so you just need to do it and not think too hard about it.”
