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Flashing his pearly white teeth, he arches an insinuating brow, and I can feel my cheeks heat, which only makes him chuckle.
As I’m taking my seat beside Bella, she turns to me. “Did Dad tell you the news?”
I smile and shake my head. “What news, Curly-Sue?”
“Oh, Summer. It’s thebest. We’re going to a Palace.”
Caden snorts opposite us. “What Bugmeansis we’re going to theAlexandra Palace.”
My eyebrows crease in puzzlement. “For what?”
“There’s a Misdirection charity gig there tomorrow evening, and I’d love to bring you both. Bella’s never been to a show—you either, I’d imagine—”
“I’ve seen you perform several times.”
The words have left my mouth before they’ve even registered, and I wish more than anything that I could take them back when pain flashes across his handsome face.
“Oh, really? Where was that?”
I can hear the hurt in his attempt at indifference.
Idiot, Summer!
“Almost every time you played Madison Square Garden.”
He smiles sadly, huffing out a borderline bitter laugh. “You were in New York?”
Shiiiiiit!
I nod once and thank my lucky stars when Maggie appears with breakfast, helping to shift the focus from me onto Bella’s grumbly tummy. Even so, I can feel Caden’s sadness rolling off of him in waves. I despise being the cause of it, and so I change my plans.
Tomorrow. I’ll come clean tomorrow. After the concert.
CHAPTER9
CADEN
I spendmost of my morning on the phone, organising a setlist that should have been finalised weeks ago while also trying to get my fellow group members to hotfoot it back to London from wherever they’re fucking about on the planet.
We’re on a break right now, so my four other bandmates are off doing whatever they do when we’re not recording or touring.
The quickest and easiest to track down is Beau Maxwell, our drummer. The guy is built like the damn Hulk with a grimace to match, but he’s a big softie. He spends his downtime with his elderly parents and wheelchair-bound older sister up in Newcastle.
Beau
I’ll be in London for rehearsal this evening. 6 p.m?
I shoot him back a quick thumbs-up emoji, grateful to have one ticked off the list.
An hour later sees me finding and enlisting Tobias Wolfe, our bassist, and Danny Sheffield, our keyboardist. I’m cursing Jake Milano, our lead guitarist, who has clearly disappeared off the face of the damn planet when Henry calls.
“Hey, brother. Just touching base about the show tomorrow. Liv said her organisers haven’t heard a thing from your end and—”
“Henry.” My unusually stern tone cuts my best friend off sharply. “I am in the midst of sorting it, okay? I’ve been alittlebusy.”
He snorts. “Doing what? Sitting on your thumb?”
His laugh dies in his throat when I whisper. “Summer’s back.”
