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Dev exchanged looks with Haru. “Uh…” Come to think of it, his bladder was screaming at him.
Haru shook out his hands. “I didn’t realize it had been so long.” His eyes widened. “Shit! Was Nash looking for me? Was I supposed to rehearse?”
“No, you’re safe.” Casey walked over and took the Gibson out of Dev’s cramped fingers. “Owen dragged Eli with him into the summer kitchen, and Sylvia’s been teaching them to make eclairs all afternoon.” He chuckled. “Owen’s attempt to make choux pastry might actually be worse than mine. As far as Nash is concerned? I couldn’t tell you, but he and Joe took the limo into town for lunch, and I don’t think they’ve returned.”
Haru glanced at the window, where the last glow of the sunset was fading over the trees. “I suppose I ought to check in.”
“Time enough for that after dinner.” Casey set the Gibson on its stand. “Which Sylvia has ready for all of us at Harrison House.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Paella, with sausage and shrimp sourced from Kat’s local vendors, and rustic raspberry tarts with fruit courtesy of Tim, the Vegetable Guy.”
Dev’s stomach growled. “Fuck, that sounds amazing.”
“Trust me. It is.” Casey glanced between Dev and Haru. “But before we go”—he screwed up his face—“I did a thing. A thing you might not entirely like.”
Dev snaked an arm around Casey’s waist and drew him in until his thighs bumped the rocker’s arm. “Then you might as well tell us. No more avoidance, right?”
“Yeah, I’m working on that.” He blew out a breath. “I put the two of you in the music lineup. Think you can have a twenty-minute set ready by tomorrow?” He gave them a gritted-teeth grin.
Dev and Haru exchanged glances. Dev’s expression was probably gobsmacked. Haru’s was downright panicked.
“But Nash,” Haru croaked. “POV.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you mid-afternoon. As the headliner, POV’s closing the show in the evening.” He stroked Dev’s hair, the look in his eyes both fond and fierce. “You deserve this.” He lifted his gaze to Haru. “Both of you. So what do you say?”
Dev met Casey’s gaze. He believes in me. Maybe it’s time I believed in myself again. He smiled crookedly at Haru. “I’m in if you are.”
Haru’s grin bloomed and Dev took a moment to marvel at Nash Tambling’s idiocy at treating this man as a substitute.
“Absolutely. Let’s do it.”
“That’s the last one.” Kenny shut down his tablet and stretched. “All vendors present and accounted for, and all musicians at least accounted for, even if they’re not present.”
Casey chuckled. “Well, it’s only eight-thirty in the morning. Musicians are a nocturnal race, aren’t they? I don’t think we can expect to spot any of them until the first set this afternoon.”
Casey had left Dev snoozing away when he’d crawled out of bed at six. They hadn’t had a chance for as much as a little frotting last night because Dev had come staggering to bed after two, following a marathon session with Haru at Ty’s place. They hadn’t wanted to rehearse at Harrison House where the rest of the band—or the glowering Nash—could hear or in the cottage where they’d disturb Casey.
Not that Casey would have minded being disturbed. Dev and Haru together made a truly marvelous noise.
“If you don’t need me for anything,” Kenny said, tucking his tablet under his arm, “I promised Kat I’d help at the Market.”
Casey shooed him away. “Go, go. In fact, I’ll come with you. We’ll handle any other questions at the information tent in front of Harrison House.” They walked across the dance studio’s scuffed wooden floor, their movements echoed in the mirrors along one long wall. “Registration was the only thing I was worried about. Nothing’s worse than a backlog when all the vendors want to do is get their stands set up for the incoming hordes. I helped out with enough conferences back in business school to know that much.”
“Let’s hope for hordes,” Kenny said. “If we only get a trickle—”
“Bite your tongue!” Casey made sure the studio door locked behind them, and that the sign directing folks to the information table was in place. “It’s going to be a rousing success. I insist.”
Kenny grinned. “Well, in that case, who am I to rain on the parade?”
“Augh!” Casey held up his fingers in a cross to ward off the ominous words. “Don’t say rain.”
Kenny’s grin morphed into a full-on belly laugh as they headed toward Main Street. “Even if it does—and every meteorologist from here to Burlington says we’ll have nothing but a few fluffy clouds all day—the vendors will be safe under their awnings and the musicians under the stage canopy.”
“But it might keep the audience away.”
Kenny winked. “Never underestimate the passion of a tourist for food or a music aficionado for true discomfort in the quest for live performances. Remember Woodstock?”
“We’re hardly Woodstock.”
“Nope. We’re Home.” He winked again. “We’ve got more Port-a-Potties per capita. See you later.”
