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He picks me up and twirls me around while chanting, “Indigo! Indigo! Indigo!”
I giggle when he sets me down. “Dylan. Dylan. Dylan.”
“This is Indigo?TheIndigo?” Jet asks.
Dylan wraps an arm around my shoulders and hauls me near. “Indigo, this is Jet. I’d say watch out for him since he’ll hit on you, but he already did.”
Jet holds up his palms and retreats a few steps. “It was a joke. I didn’t know who she was.”
I lean close to mock-whisper to Dylan, “What’s his problem?”
“He thinks Cash will beat his ass for hitting on you.”
“Cash doesn’t care who hits on me.”
“Have you forgotten how he beat up the soccer player for winking at you?”
“Cash didn’t beat him up.” Dylan raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t,” I insist, although Cash totally did beat up the poor soccer player.
“How did you know I’m in Winter Falls? Does Cash know you’re here? What are you doing here anyway?”
I ignore the first two questions – I came here to escape Cash, not discuss him – and answer the last one, “My grandma lived here.”
“Lived?”
My eyes itch but I sniff to hold back the tears. “She passed away a week ago.” Will those words ever get any easier to say?
He wraps me up in a hug. “I’m sorry, Indigo.”
The door flies open. “Indigo’s here?”
“She does exist!”
Dylan releases me and spins me around to face the new arrivals. “This is Fender and Gibson.”
Fender lifts his chin in greeting while Gibson saunters my way. He holds out his hand, but he doesn’t shake mine. He presses his lips to my fingers instead.
“Charmed to make your acquaintance.”
Fender smacks him upside the head. “No hitting on Cash’s girl.”
“I’m not Cash’s girl.” No matter how much my stomach warms upon hearing the words. Or how much I enjoyed kissing him the other day. Or how much I want to touch those muscles he’s developed since high school.
I’m not giving Cash the chance to break my heart again. And he would break it again since nothing’s changed. He still values his rockstar life over me.
Fender snorts. “You’ll always be Cash’s girl.”
I haven’t been Cash’s girl since he walked away at our high school graduation ceremony. But I’m not discussing my relationship with Cash with a bunch of rockstars I barely know. Time for a diversion.
“Is Fender your real name?” I wave toward Gibson. “What about you? Gibson your real name?”
Gibson ignores my question – he probably assumes I already know everything about the band – and grasps my hand to lead me to the sofa where he pushes me down and sits right next to me.
For the record, I don’t know everything aboutCash & the Sinners.I didn’t cyberstalk them like some overenthusiastic fan girl. In fact, I may have switched the radio station a time or two or three thousand when one of their songs came on the air.
“Tell us everything,” Gibson insists. “What was Cash like as a teenager?”
“Why are you asking me? Dylan went to high school with Cash.”
