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“What exactly are we discussing?” Suzan asks, looking between us once again.
Sutton ignores her. “You sure you can keep up?”
I smirk. “I kept up last night.”
She stares at me for a few seconds. They pass like seconds. Feel like lifetimes.
Finally, she speaks. “Suzan, can you let Jackson and Hannah know I have a new guitarist lined up?”
I don’t look away from her, even to read Suzan’s reaction.
“Jackson is the bandleader,” she tells me. “He’ll get you up to speed on set lists and rehearsals. And Hannah is my assistant. She’ll manage all your travel arrangements.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Suzan speaks up. “Sutton, I’m not sure… I’ve got ten guitarists on their way to LA to meet with the whole band and—”
“Apologize for wasting their time and tell them the opening has been filled.”
“Sutton.”
“You heard me the first time. I need a new guitarist, apparently, and now I’ve got one. I’m going to pack. We can be out of here in an hour. I assume you brought the jet?”
She has her ownjet?
“Yes,” Suzan answers, looking uncertain and also unwilling to challenge Sutton further.
Sutton nods before she turns and starts toward the farmhouse. I watch her walk away, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.
I’m not about to say goodbye.
I’m about to spend six weeks with her.
Suzan studies Sutton’s retreating figure as well before turning back to me. “You’re Johnny, right?”
“Uh, no. Teddy,” I correct her.
She shakes her head, wearing an expression that’s half-amused, half-exasperated. “You called herJune. You’re Johnny.”
“Oh.” I shift my weight between both feet, trying to figure out how to respond to that. “Uh, I guess so.”
“You ever played professionally?”
I shake my head.
“Well”—Suzan exhales, then laughs—“this will be interesting.”
Before I can reply—before I can decidewhatto reply—she’s climbing into the car, buffered by tinted glass.
