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“I’m sorry we haven’t had time for, you know, more. I promise I’ll try to stay awake tonight long enough to do something.”
Dev smiled fondly. “Don’t feel guilty. If we feel up to it, we’ll fool around, but sex should never feel like a chore, and I’ve been just as beat as you.” He kissed Casey’s forehead and set him on his feet again, enjoying the slide of him along Dev’s front. “I’ve forgotten how exhausting musicians can be.”
“Oh!” Casey pulled his phone out of his back pocket. “I almost forgot. There’s another act who wants a spot.” He grinned up at Dev. “You’ll never guess who.”
Dev frowned. “I thought I’d hit up all the local acts. Everyone as far away as New Haven.”
“This band isn’t local.” Casey bounced a little on his toes. “They’re international.”
“Casey, we can’t afford an international act.”
“I know, but they’re performing for a small honorarium, room and board, and 5% of the concert take.” He gazed up at Dev, his worry wrinkle back. “I didn’t think you’d mind, given the increased visibility. I mean, you’ve got those empty houses, but we’ve got room to put them up at Harrison House, so that’s an option too, and I bet Sylvia would agree to prepare their meals. To be honest, I thought they’d changed their minds. After their manager called the first time, I never heard back, so I kind of spaced it. But then he followed up this morning to confirm.” He flashed the screen at Dev. “Persistence of Vision! Can you believe it?”
The mental gut punch must have shown in his face because Casey’s worry frown deepened. “Dev? I’m sorry. I know I should have referred them to you, but—”
“Hey.” He kissed the top of Casey’s head. “I’m not mad at you.” He forced a smile. “But POV? It’s my old band. The one I left after the accident.”
Casey goggled at him. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No wonder their music lately has sucked.”
One day more.
As Casey strode from the old dance studio that would be acting as the festival’s registration area, the lyrics from Les Miz’s anthem were playing on repeat in his head, because tomorrow was the day. The opening of Home Grown Tastes and Tunes, and no matter how confident Casey was that the event would be a success—vendor spots were sold out, the music roster was full, they’d had to cut off orders for Sylvia’s picnics because the basket weaver said she was out of stock—he still worried that somehow Bradley would find a way to scupper the whole thing.
He hadn’t heard a peep from Bradley since their confrontation at the resort, but as Casey had been promoting Home Grown, he kept running into Bradley’s marketing for the antique fair, which had appeared as far away as Atlantic City.
Casey suspected that Bradley was blanketing the northeast with his publicity as a not-so-subtle dig: See what I can accomplish with my name and network? But as far as Casey was concerned, Bradley’s OTT campaign just meant Casey didn’t have to spend as much on his own efforts. He was perfectly willing to coast along in the wake, because more visitors to Merrilton meant more potential visitors to Home.
The resort manager had told Casey their occupancy was maxed out, as were most of the other inns and B&Bs in Merrilton. She and her staff were already pimping Home Grown to their guests, although she’d confided that a lot of them were here specifically for Home Grown, and had been disappointed that Home had no onsite accommodations.
We really need the inn to reopen. And maybe explore turning Harrison House into a B&B or some kind of retreat rental.
Because next year, Home Grown is going to be even bigger.
Casey slowed as he crunched down Harrison House’s driveway and wandered past the porch on his way to the summer kitchen.
Next year.
With all the work on the festival, he’d completely abandoned his cooking lessons weeks ago—he didn’t have time to struggle through them, and Sylvia didn’t have time to run interference on his kitchen disasters. He’d been run ragged—they all had—getting the festival up in such a short time, but despite the pressure, despite the almost round-the-clock projects, despite the constant demands on his time, he’d never felt so… free.
The difference. Oh, my god, the difference. Doing something he loved, something he was good at, something he wanted to do? He couldn’t believe he’d spent so much time, effort, and angst on something he not only loathed and was terrible at, but that he’d only approached out of obligation.
I’m never doing that again. I don’t have to do that again. I never did.
As he gazed at the summer kitchen’s door—freshly painted a deep crimson courtesy of Kenny and his crew—the relief, the joy that fountained under Casey’s heart was tempered by trepidation.
Was he really considering staying here instead of returning to Manhattan?
Not falling in with Bradley’s little dom act was a no-brainer, of course. But bailing on the city? On the restaurant? On Uncle Walt’s dreams?
He felt like he was balanced on the ledge overlooking the quarry waters, blue and sparkling and inviting so far below. Did he scuttle back onto the safety of the rocks, or take the leap, soar into the air, and take the plunge? Trust that the chill water would be bracing rather than numbing, that he’d swim and not sink?
When he’d stormed out of Bradley’s room, he’d declared that he was home already, and it certainly felt as though Home had embraced him. But had they really? Would he have a place here in town—by Dev’s side—once the festival was over and summer faded into fall?
His throat tightened and his chest ached with yearning to make it so. Sure, he was staying in Dev’s cottage every night now, but most of his belongings were still in his room at Harrison House. Dev hadn’t technically asked him to move in. Maybe once Home was out of financial danger, he’d want his space to himself again.
Casey walked past the summer kitchen and hunkered down, resting his arms on his knees. He wasn’t the only one teetering on the edge of something momentous. This festival could be the tipping point for Home, but right now it was all potential.
One more day.
