by T. I. Lowe
“But—”
“No buts. I’ve already hired extra holiday help and the financial books will be here waiting for you to return.”
My main responsibility is to handle the business end for my momma’s gourmet bakery, Southern Twist. She takes southern classics and turns them on their heads. The place is outrageously popular and is set up on the upper-class side of Shimmer Lakes. If I’m not balancing the books, I’m up to my elbows in dough or cake batter. I love to bake. It’s therapeutic. More importantly, both tasks are away from the interactions of the public—something I’m terrible at. We’ve only been in business here for a little under two years, and the books are already in the black.
The mountains of North Carolina were where we called home for most of my twenty-six years of life, but when my dad was killed in a car wreck, we concluded that chapter of life there and headed here to be closer to Momma’s side of the family.
And that’s why the decision mapped out on this paper before me is so tough. My momma and I only have each other. I just don’t think I can run off and leave her, even if it’s just for a short spell.
Momma clasps her hand over mine, summoning my attention back to the now. “Izzy, you deserve this.”
Shaking my head, I whisper, “It’s too soon. I don’t want to leave you…”
Momma waves her hand as though she’s shooing the notion away. “We will have our own holiday when you get back. You know things slow down after Christmas and New Year’s, so sign the contract and go live a little.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, without meeting anyone’s gaze. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this right now.”
Silence takes over the table, so I look up and find a shadow of disappointment and maybe pity mingle in my friend’s expression. Jewels pushes the contract closer to me as she stands. “You have a few weeks to reconsider. I pray you do.”
With that, both of my exasperated friends disappear out the front door, leaving me and the taunting paper. My eyes scan it once more and it really does scream adventure, but I choose to ignore it and go hide the rest of the day in the kitchen.
•♫•♫•♫•
Nestled in my cozy lakefront bungalow, midnight silently creeps up on me as I finish stringing the lights on the small tree. I normally wait until Thanksgiving has had its day to shine, but this year I’m antsy to get the holiday underway. That or I’m too keyed up to sleep and this was the only thing I could come up with. Either way, I’m only a week early on my tradition.
Baking in the still of night is what I usually turn to when my mind won’t shut off, but it’s Saturday and the bakery is closed on Sundays. So there’s no need in knocking out any bread tonight. The soft melody of Christmas carols keeps me company as I rummage around in the box of new decorations.
A light next door catches my attention as I straighten from the box. It’s odd for my neighbor to be up this late. Momma normally turns in as soon as the sun goes down. We snagged these one-bedroom houses with the promises of being close to one another, while still being able to maintain some independence that we both needed to learn.
A soft knock sounds at the back door, producing Momma in her flannel pajamas as though my mere thoughts conjured her.
“It’s past your bedtime, young lady,” I say, switching the stereo off.
Momma ignores my tease. “Is that hazelnut I smell?”
“Yep. It should be done brewing soon.” The nutty roast perfumes the small space.
She sidles up next to me and pulls a beautiful blue ornament out of the substantial gift box. “Blue and silver? I like it.” She hangs it on a vacant branch before digging out another.
“A gift from Jewels. She’s still at me to go on that tour. I guess this is her attempt at buttering me up.” I shrug, pulling a box of silver snowflakes out. It’s been three weeks since she presented the contract that I turned down, but she’s not accepting my answer.
“I hear she’s a stubborn one,” Momma says on a quiet chuckle.
We work in silence for a short while, as the tree takes shape with sparkling silver and metallic blues dancing in the twinkling white lights.
We step back and are both trying to decide where to tuck the remaining ornaments, when I have to ask, “Momma, seriously, what’s up?”
She eases her gaze in my direction. “Sugar, I would hope your eyes are open to the reality that life is such a fickle thing. We don’t know what day will be our last…”
Images of my dad lit up in laughter flash, followed by him still in a casket before I can stamp them down. Yes, I do know.
Momma’s warm hand grasps mine, drawing my attention back to her. “Please, Izzy, in honor of your daddy, go on this trip and live some.”
How to say no to that?
“But… I’m scared.”
“Don’t you remember your daddy saying if you aren’t scared of a challenge before you, then you’re not doing it right? Scared is good. Go conquer it. Do this for me, too. I worry I’ve sheltered you too much and have hindered you from finding your wings.”
Abandoning the decorating, I wrap my arms around this amazing woman—trying desperately to alleviate her ill-placed guilt. Daddy always tried to get me to emerge from my bashfulness while Momma always tried to protect me from it. Regretfully, I used her support as a crutch to not move beyond my introverted ways, but she is in no way to be blamed.
“How about we go over that contract and see what you’re gonna be up to.” She pulls away and heads over to my small dinette table where the paper in question sits in wait. I’m guessing it doesn’t have to wait any longer—whether I want it or not.
The coffee pot beeps to alert it being done with its brewing job, so I grab us both a mug and set out to talking myself into signing the darn thing.
“It doesn’t seem so complicated. You just have to agree not to share personal info on the band and their family. And your main duties sound on the lines of being a personal shopper and gopher. Let’s not forget, you get to attend over a dozen concerts and go on a road trip all over this country.” Her eyes sparkle with hope.
“I’ve never even been on a plane,” I mutter, full of doubt.
“Well, you’re starting from the top on that one.” She points to a note in the contract. “Private jet.”
Oh boy. An unwelcome and overwhelming feeling creeps along my shoulders and neck. This trip is either going to release me from my shell or crack it altogether. Here’s praying it’s not the latter.
Chapter Three
Mave
“I’m so proud of you, boys,” Mom says, squeezing me in her arms tightly.
“You’re sure you don’t want to load up and go with us? There’s room. Or at least meet up in West Virginia with the rest of the group for Christmas?” I ask for the hundredth time.
“I’m sure,” she answers for the hundredth time.
She won’t leave Gramps, and I can’t blame her. If she wasn’t doing well health wise, I’d be staying put, too. The old geezer already threatened me and Max with his cane that we are to go on this tour. Period.
“Last bags. Thanks, bro, for the help.”
We watch on as Max dumps the rest of the gifts around Mom’s tree. I hate leaving her, but this is one of those ‘got to’ times. The call is too strong to ignore.
“You’re welcome, bro.” I grin at him, and he glares at me.
Max wraps Mom in a hug, so we are all three tangled in a King sandwich.
“You boys take care of one another. I love you.”
Pressing a kiss to her cheek, I say, “I love you, too.”
Max repeats this and then we are both out the door and loaded up in the awaiting SUV in a flash. It is literally time to get this show on the road. I can hardly sit still as the driver heads over to the airport.
Earlier, I tried taking the edge off all this tension by hitting the gym with Dillon. It did little good, though. Dude wanted to keep on about me coming off my songs for our next album. We start work on it thi
s spring, so I have some time to work through it. The thing with my lyrics is that they are deeply personal, so it’s no easy decision to share them with the public. That’s something Dillon and Jewels have never seemed to have a problem with. Not me. It’s terrifying. I know it’s time, but releasing this part of me won’t be easy.
“Do you mind?” Max mumbles from beside me.
“Mind what?” I ask, still lost in thought.
I feel his hand clamp down on my own to quieten it. “You were tapping out a pretty aggressive beat.”
He’s looking at me guardedly. They all do this, no matter how much time passes. I’ve placed this worry in my family, regretfully. There’s no urge to use anymore, but I have a nagging nervousness that never completely eases ever since the overdose. My hands are constantly tapping out beats. It’s been a lifelong habit that has gotten worse over time.
Stealing a deep breath, I realize I should have ditched Dillon and went for a long, hard run instead.
“We’ll be rocking out tomorrow night,” Max says, bringing me back once again. He offers his fist, so I bump it. “Was that a new beat you were tapping out?” Max doesn’t fool me. He’s all about it now that my edginess ratted me out to him.
For the remainder of the ride, we talk about music and some new chords he wants to add to the beginning of “Crashing” to mix it up a bit. It’s one of my favorite songs Dillon has written. It’s all about the ruckus us guys have caused together over the years. The message is that no matter how many times we crash—and there have been plenty with lots of scars to prove it—we always have each other’s backs. Yep. My bro knows me well. Talking about music allows me a reprieve until we reach the private entrance to the airport.
After sliding on my shades, I exit the SUV behind Max. We ease around the back to help grab up our bags, but my stride falters when Jewels rounds the side of her Mustang with a hot blonde in tow. The song in my mind mutes and my hand stills.
Dang…
My head tilts automatically to get a better assessment. She’s no more than an inch or two taller than Jewels and that ain’t saying much being Jewels is five foot nothing. What this mystery woman lacks in height, babe makes up for it in body. That sweet little figure has the fine lines reminiscent of the classic curves of a vintage electric guitar—a tight waist progressing into lush hips.
“Hot dang. Life just got a whole lot more interesting, boys,” Max mutters as we all take in the new view.
It’s only then that I notice vaguely that the rest of the group minus Dillon is gathered at the back of the SUV.
“Who’s our new friend, Jewels,” Max hollers out. The whole crowd of us makes quick work of eliminating the distance between us and them.
“Guys, this is Elizabeth Walker, our new tour assistant, and she answers to Izzy.”
An enticing blush warms her creamy skin as she takes a step behind Jewels. This beauty seems a bit too skittish, making me wonder what Jewels is thinking.
“Hey, gorgeous. I’m Max,” my brother says a bit too boisterously, causing the poor chick to retreat another step behind Jewels. Trace pops him in the arm in warning, but Max just looks at him in confusion.
Oh man. This is going to be interesting, for sure.
Jewels introduces the rest of us quickly, before grabbing up Izzy’s arm and leading her back to the kids and then into the jet.
Scratching the side of my neck, my eyes follow Izzy’s retreating form until she disappears inside completely.
“Is she mute?” Blake asks from behind me. I didn’t even notice him joining us.
“More like scared out of her mind,” Trace retorts.
“She’s just star struck,” Max says.
They keep tossing their opinions as we help unload the bags and hand them over to the crew to stow in the plane. My opinion is that this chick is going to be fun to figure out.
Chapter Four
Izzy
The buttery softness of this massive leather seat does very little to welcome me to my adventure. My nervous fingers fumble with the seatbelt until it fits snuggly. Horrible thoughts automatically kick up the obvious—how in the heck is a seatbelt going to do any good if the plane goes down? Ugh!
“Can you breathe, little lady?” Logan asks.
I glance up and find him watching me from the other side of our shared table. I have a four hour flight with Logan Hot-stuff Carter facing me. Oh my. He’s grinning at me, stealing said breath. My face warms and nerves hold my voice hostage, so all I can manage is a slight head nod.
This feels like some surreal dream. Not only am I jet-setting in a luxurious flying hotel suite—creamy-white leather and glossy warm woodwork—I’m also surrounded by the hottest band in the country.
Raucous laughter steals my attention from beside us. It’s a four person seating arrangement and the flight attendant seems to be glued to it, too. I don’t blame the girl one bit. The four occupants are Trace, Max, Mave, and Will. It’s a very attractive grouping. Jewels and Dillon better have plans in place for keeping a bodyguard leashed to their son. Will is an exact replica of his dad—jet-black hair, blue eyes that glow purple, and heartbreaking dimples. That teenage boy is going to be dangerous with all of those Bleu genes he’s inherited.
The thought—Bleu genes—has me snickering louder than I intended, which draws the good looking groups’ attention. Embarrassed, I avert my eyes to the small circular window to my left. Big mistake. This big ole jet is taxiing down the runway without so much as a warning. I think I’m going to be sick.
Logan must sense this, because his warm hand wraps on top of mine that is braced white-knuckled to the edge of the table.
“Breathe, little lady. All’s good.” Mr. Mellow croons this out, but I’m still close to freaking out. Logan Carter is touching me!
I take that deep breathe he advised, reminding myself he has a fiancée and is just offering me some friendly empathy.
“First time flying?”
My gaze is still locked on the terrifying scene outside this window. The land is disappearing right before my eyes. My jaw refuses to unhinge, so I offer another nod.
He chuckles and I swear it sounds close to a melody. “Can you speak?”
I finally look away from the window and lock onto his kind, golden eyes. He normally has those babies hiding behind a pair of aviator shades. I now see why. They are quite intense. Embarrassed, I ease my gaze over to the silver hoops dressing his ear. Logan clears his throat and that sounds closer to a velvety two-part harmony. He’s still waiting for me to answer. Oh boy.
“Not right now.” I manage to squeak this out around a tight throat.
He chuckles again and finally releases my hand.
After we’re told it’s safe to release our seatbelts—I do not—Ben scoots over to the guys and starts going over a few changeups for the concert tomorrow night. Tate plops down on the edge of my seat, which I’m actually okay with. We’ve met several times in the last two weeks to get me familiar with my new job assignment, so I’ve gotten pretty comfortable with this ginger-haired flirt. He goes over my duties for tomorrow, which includes shopping for Christmas gifts. I wonder why the band didn’t take care of their shopping before the tour, but it’s none of my business so I shrug the notion off. I get to put together a grocery delivery and I’m sort of excited over that. Food is definitely my forte. Tate hands over a list of the band’s likes and dislikes, which pretty much is void of dislikes, making my job easy.
An hour passes before a late lunch is served. My stomach is on a constant flip-flopping mode, so Max gladly takes my plate off my hands. I take this time to plan a menu. They don’t like to eat heavy before going on stage, so I’m thinking about whipping up a light pasta primavera with grilled chicken. A fruit salad with lemon scented whipped cream will finish the meal off on a good note…
“Hey, doll. How about hand over that fork,” Mave speaks, leaning over the small aisle and carrying a hint of a clean citrusy cologne with him.
I am
absolutely overwhelmed by this whole blame situation. Where’s Jewels when I need a shield?
His chestnut-brown hair is a bit long on top and a few wayward strands dip onto his forehead as he leans my way. I have the overwhelming urge to brush them off, but keep my hands locked together in my lap. Oh my. I’m staring at him stunned, when I realize he’s still waiting with an outreached hand.
“I’m not a doll,” I stutter out, with cheeks blazing. I really need to figure out how to get that under control. I plop my unused fork in his hand.
His dark-brown eyes twinkle with I’m guessing amusement. “You sure look sweet enough to be one.” He winks one of those gorgeous eyes before straightening up.
Both he and Will have manned sets of forks and set into tapping out a beat on the tabletop. In perfect sync with each other, they launch into a deftly skilled routine. I’ve never seen such an impromptu act so riveting and am unable to look away. Both have their heads slightly bent and bobbing to the beat they are expertly beckoning from ordinary forks.
At one point, they set one fork down and slam their fists on top of the prongs, sending them flying until they nimbly catch the forks and continue without missing a beat. These two outrageously talented drummers perform for us as Blake captures it with his phone.
“You better ask Daddy’s permission before posting his baby boy online,” Max says.
The beat concludes with Mave and Will fist-bumping.
“You okay with that, boss?” Blake asks Dillon as his considerable form emerges from the back bedroom.
“Sure, man.”
I manage to work up enough courage to ask Dillon as he stops by my seat, “How’s Grace?”
“She’s still sleeping,” he says with a weary smile while running his hand through his thick black hair.
His little princess isn’t crazy about flying, and it’s evident in his expression he worries about her. What a lucky girl to have this man for a daddy. I should have begged for a double-dose of her children’s Dramamine. Maybe my nerves wouldn’t be so shot.