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“What time will Sharon be here?” The butterflies started almost immediately. Tomorrow. No child. Date night. Cain.
Maggie twirled the fork around her plate, not really hungry but thinking she should at least make the effort.
“Right after Batman.”
She smiled at her son. Batman was his favorite cartoon, and he watched it every morning. “All right, so I think when you’re done eating, you should hit the shower and get that out of the way before bed.”
“Yep, and I’ll pack my bag too.”
“Good idea.”
“Mom?”
Maggie gave up on the casserole and rested her chin in her hand. “Yes?”
A grin spread wide across his face, and her heart jerked, full of love as she gazed into his twinkling eyes. “I like your hair. You look extra pretty tonight.”
She rose from the table and dropped a kiss on his forehead. God, how she loved him. He was her life, and at the moment, her life was pretty much perfect.
Chapter 18
Cain slid his ’68 Gibson Les Paul across his lap and leaned back in the chair as he looked o
ut over the pristine blue lake in front of him. It was another gorgeous summer day, the breeze was slight, and the water was dotted with boats pulling skiers and tubers alike.
His long fingers slid up the rosewood fretboard, and he absently picked at the low E, caressing the note into a fullness that came naturally to him.
For as long as he could remember, the guitar had been an extension of his arm. His mother had given him an acoustic when he was eight. She’d gotten it free at a garage sale, along with a bunch of how-to magazines.
Cain had felt an immediate connection to the instrument. He’d tossed the magazines and taught himself how to play. It became an obsession, something he did every day, and for a child of eight, that was saying something. From then on, his life consisted of music, football, and his buddies.
All of it had led him to where he was today.
The notes he pulled from those six strings and the melodies he created were like magic. He lived for the thrill of creating something unique. He wrote songs from the heart, hard-rocking tunes, and soulful ballads. His unique voice—a blend of whiskey blues and hard-edged rock—bent and colored the melody in a way no one else could.
Cain Black sang the way he did everything else—at full tilt and full of passion. He’d never been afraid to put it out there…but would he be able to write without Blake? Would he be able to come up with the words that would blend perfectly with the melody? Did he have it in him?
These were sobering thoughts, and he frowned as the lightness he’d enjoyed for the morning disappeared. He’d done his best not to think about the band and what was in store for him when he returned to LA.
Christ, if he couldn’t carry his weight—write songs that were hits—would his dream be over before it had a chance?
He strummed a few more chords. Blake was the lyricist—had always been that guy. Could Cain do it?
“That something new?”
Mac strolled onto the deck, dark glasses covering his eyes and two days worth of beard shadowing his jaw. His GQ hair, however, looked perfect.
“You look like shit.” Cain ran a pentatonic scale, fingers flying over the strings, and shook his head. “How much vodka you throw back last night?”
Mac stretched and groaned. “Too much.”
Cain wanted to say more but decided to keep his mouth shut. Truthfully, he was worried about Mackenzie and thought that maybe he was hitting the sauce a little too heavy. But as Jake had pointed out the night before, Mac had always done things his own way and, if pushed, tended to hit back.
It was better to let him deal with his demons on his own terms, and if things got messy, they’d intervene.
“So what’s on for tonight?”
Cain’s fingers stilled. “I’m taking Maggie out for dinner.”
