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“We need live music, Brin,” Callum said.
She inhaled a deep breath as if in resignation. “I don’t like it.”
“I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
I frowned, shifting my gaze from Callum to Brin and back again. It was like they spoke in code. What didn’t she like?
“I’ll keep searching. When do they arrive?”
“Two hours.”
“Okay.”
Callum’s head turned and his gaze landed on me before I had the chance to look away.
“North’s little sister. We finally meet.” His smooth drawl reminded me of expensive aged whiskey.
I raised my chin and turned to face him. “Mr. James,” I replied.
“I understand you are residing at Vic Gate’s cabin.”
I stiffened. Crap. What the hell? “Ah, yeah. Sort of. It’s temporary. We’re moving. Soon. In a week.”
His brows arched, and there was a subtle pull at the corners of his mouth as if he was amused by something. Maybe my inability to speak in full sentences. “Do you have another place to stay?”
He didn’t seem the type to have casual conversations, but then, I knew virtually nothing about him except that he’d hung out with my brother in his teens, owned the bar, and had an entourage of what looked like bodyguards. What I didn’t want was to end up being the one who had to tell Callum James that Vic was back in town. “Not yet. But I’m sure I’ll find something.” In a week.
“I have a guesthouse on my horse farm that is unoccupied at the moment. You’re welcome to use it.”
Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. I glanced at Brin, but her head was dipped down, and I couldn’t see her expression. “Oh, uh, thanks.” I think.
He offered a nod. “Speak to Darius. He’ll make arrangements.” His gaze shifted to Brin again. “When they arrive, show them to a table and give them whatever they want. I’ll have Darius bring them downstairs.”
Downstairs? All that was downstairs was an old wine cellar, and I’d never been down there because the iron gate at the top of the stairs was padlocked.
“Sure thing, boss,” Brin said.
Callum walked away and disappeared into the back. I sagged against the bar, my mind spinning. Why would he offer me his guesthouse? Did he even know about Jackson? “Does he always offer his guesthouse to his staff?”
“No,” Brin replied as she took the rest of the glasses off my tray.
“Then why would he?”
She shrugged. “Probably to stay in Hettie’s good books. He’d do anything for that woman.” Brin turned and snagged her cell off the back counter, then leaned her butt on it as she tapped on the screen. “Bloody hell, I hate filling in.”
I frowned. “Wait. You perform?” I’d never heard anything about Brin playing or singing.
She shrugged, but it was stiff, as if she either didn’t want to talk about it or didn’t care. “A little. Violin.”
My jaw dropped. Violin? Okay, I was pigeonholing violinists into a certain, well, look—but Brin did not look like she played the violin. The electric guitar, maybe. Or the drums. But not the violin.
“Wow. That’s great.” I’d never played guitar in front of anyone except my mom. But I’d always dreamed of one day being able to sing the songs I write. Songs that meant something to me. That were part of me.
Mom used to say make every song you write bleed fragments of you.
My chest squeezed. God, I missed her.
I missed sitting on the front porch together and watching a storm roll in. We’d count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder while listening to the rain trickle through the eaves’ troughs and watching it bounce off the puddles. She used to play her guitar on the porch all the time, even when it was freezing out. She said the sounds of nature inspired the music.
