Don't Let the Music Die (The Storyhill Musicians Book 2)

by Annmarie Boyle

  She’d been looking forward to yesterday when it was going to be just her and Ajay in the studio. But the studio had felt empty, cold. Damn it, she’d missed him.

  “This queen never left her throne,” Ajay said, saving her from having to answer. “Matt Taylor could never be more than a court jester.”

  Ajay meant to be funny, but she knew the comment would wound Matt. He was more than studio dressing. He’d proven himself to be a capable, clever co-host.

  “Court jesters made sure no one got too bored by the queen,” Matt said, sauntering into the studio.

  Avery whirled toward him. “Ajay was only joking.”

  He smiled a soft, private smile. “Being an entertainer is all I’ve ever dreamed of, Mac. I’m choosing to take it as a compliment. Though I draw the line at wearing one of those striped poufy costumes with some weird hat.”

  Celeste laughed. “Good thing this is radio. No costumes required.”

  “Good thing,” Matt echoed.

  “Avery and I were just discussing that you’ve banked two weeks of shows and only have four more to go. You excited to get back on the road?”

  “It is my favorite place to be,” Matt said, before lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Though this has turned out pretty great too.”

  Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. It had been pretty great, and it was likely to be very different in a few hours. Once she told him the truth, even if he didn’t immediately bolt, she knew beyond any doubt that the easy camaraderie they’d finally managed would disappear.

  Why had she waited this long to tell him?

  If she told him that first day, he’d have left immediately. Her show would have stayed solely hers. And she wouldn’t have fallen in love with him all over again.

  But that’s not what had happened.

  In two short weeks, she realized she’d never fully be over Matt Taylor. Ever.

  But maybe it’d be like Momma said, she’d finally feel better when she came clean with him. Maybe.

  “Five minutes,” Ajay called through her headphones.

  She nodded at him.

  “You ready?” she asked Matt.

  “I am. Are you?” he said, his eyes finding hers.

  She knew instantly that he wasn’t talking about the show. Or that wasn’t the only thing he was talking about. But she couldn’t think about that now, she had a show to do.

  She cleared her throat before bringing up her mic. “Good morning, country music fans. This is Avery Lind and—"

  “Matt Taylor. I’m still here,” he said, laughter lacing his voice.

  She laughed with him. She couldn’t help it. “And he’s Matt Taylor. With us today and for four more shows before Storyhill goes back out on the road. Where is your first stop, Matt?”

  “Calgary.”

  “A Canadian tour?” she asked, already knowing the answer. It’s not as if the information was hard to find.

  “Yes. Our fans north of the border have been so supportive, we wanted to take this new album to them first. And speaking of Canadians, I believe our guest this morning was born in Toronto, right?”

  She smiled. A smooth transition. And given the opportunity to publicize his own band, he deferred to the show.

  “That’s correct. And it’s one of the first questions on my list—how did he get from Ontario to Nashville? Seems like there might be a story there.”

  “Let’s get to it then. We ready Ajay?” Matt said.

  “We are mate.”

  “We still on for lunch?” Avery asked tentatively as Matt organized his side of the desk at the conclusion of the show.

  “Yep.” He stood and walked over to her side of the console, leaning his long frame against the desk. He brushed a stray piece of hair from her face. “Are we still going to be alone?” he asked softly and winked.

  Her core clenched. She looked at Ajay’s window. He wasn’t paying them any attention.

  She’d like nothing more than to take him home and push him down on her bed. Her bed. How long had it been since a man had been in her bed? Not since Momma moved in.

  She shook her head, shaking out the vision of Matt naked on her sheets. That wasn’t what this lunch was about. Though it would be far more enjoyable.

  “We will, but we need to talk. Clothing is strictly required.”

  He nodded, and his smile fell a little. “We do. There’s a lot to talk about.”

  More than you know, Matt Taylor. More than you know.

  He slipped his messenger bag across his chest. “Should I ride with you? You can bring me back to get my car or I can Uber back.”

  She shook her head. “I think it’s best if we drove separately.”

  He cocked his head, his eyes questioning, but said nothing.

  “Can I pick up anything on my way over?”

  She’d been obsessing about this lunch ever since she’d suggested it. She didn’t need anything but sending him on an errand would buy her some time. She could get home, make sure the house was empty. She had asked Momma and Jess to stay away, but you never knew. They’d both be at work, but plans change. And this couldn’t be interrupted. She’d never find the courage again.

  “I made soup—well, Momma made soup. I froze it. And will unfreeze it. Could you stop by that bakery on George Street and get a sourdough loaf?”

  “Done. See you at your house in a few.” He moved to leave the studio but turned back to her. “I’m glad we’re finally doing this, Mac. I have a feeling things are about to change for us.”

  Truer words had never been spoken.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Matt put his truck in park and grabbed the brown paper bag from the passenger seat. He grasped the door handle and stopped.

  Leaving the station, he thought he was ready for this. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He was going to tell her he was still in love with her. He knew how she felt about his lifestyle—or at least he thought he did. Lying awake last night, he’d come up with every excuse she might offer and his response to each one. His argument was solid.

  But he would not push himself on her. He only wanted her in his life if she wanted him in hers. The thought that she might not want him sent a cold ripple through his body.

  Nick’s words ran through his head. At least you’ll have an answer. No more wondering.

  He sucked in a breath and opened the door. It was now or never.

  He strode up the front walk and smiled, remembering Amy-Lynn tipsily kicking over a pathway light—and asking him to kiss her. He’d be totally okay if she asked him again today. And this time he wouldn’t say no.

  He knocked on the door and she yelled, “It’s open.”

  He opened the door, pulled his boots off, and took in a giant breath. The house smelled amazing. Isabel’s Pozole. He hadn’t eaten it for over a decade. But he’d know that smell anywhere. Funny how those things stuck with you.

  Amy-Lynn came around the kitchen corner. She’d changed from her work ‘uniform’ into a loose sundress, her hair down, curling toward her neck. Casual. And beautiful.

  He handed her the bag. “If I’d known you were serving Pozole, I would have tried to find some bolillos.”

  She smiled, but it was clearly fake. Was she trying to figure out how to let him down easy? No. She didn’t know what he intended to tell her, to ask her.

  “Sourdough is close enough,” she said, taking the bag from him. “Thank you.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. “I really like your place,” he said, taking in the Craftsman design and the bright colors.

  “I forgot you’ve never made it past the entryway.” Her eyes flashed around the room, as if taking it in for the first time. “The soup needs a few more minutes. Do you want a tour?”

  “Sure,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

  “About three years.”

  “And Isabel?”

  “About a year. And Jess moved in shortly thereafter.”

  “I’m impressed. I can
’t imagine buying a house.” He dipped his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither can my bank account.”

  Her throat bobbed and she ran her fingers over her exposed collarbone. “I got a little help. When Jess and I reached twenty-five, Momma gave us a portion of daddy’s death gratuity. I used mine for a down payment.”

  “And Jess?”

  Her eyes met his, and a flash of something flickered in her eyes. “A baby.”

  He lifted a brow. “Huh?”

  “She had Wyatt . . . and was uninsured.”

  “Wyatt’s dad is not in the picture?”

  Amy-Lynn visibly stiffened. “No. They didn’t have a relationship, and he didn’t want to be a dad. Jess considered all her options, but ultimately decided to have the baby.”

  “That’s—"

  “So, this is the living room,” Amy-Lynn said, cutting him off.

  Huh. So that subject was off-limits. So many of her walls were crumbling, but so many remained intact. Maybe after he told her how he felt, she’d let the rest fall. Sadness bubbled up. She’d always had a lot of walls, but never with him.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanked a vintage fireplace. He wandered over and ran his hands over the spines of the books. Jane Austen. Virginia Woolf. Ayn Rand. Toni Morrison. Stephen King. And Nora Roberts. He laughed and pulled it off the shelf.

  “I think I’ve read this one.”

  Her lips twitched. “Or at least the sexy bits.”

  His eyes widened. “Wait. There are other parts?”

  She smiled a half smile. “If those books are where you learned your moves, remind me to send Ms. Roberts a thank-you letter.”

  He licked his lips and let his eyes slide down her body. “I learned all my moves with you, Mac. Trial and error.”

  Her cheeks went pink. “I don’t remember the errors,” she breathed out, her voice rough.

  He smiled, reminding himself that he was here to talk. Or at least talk first.

  He placed the book back on the shelf, a collection of framed photos catching his attention. The first one a chubby baby with a mop of dark curls, laughing with abandon, ice cream running down his cheeks. He picked up the second one. Two teenagers. The girl smiling at the camera. The boy looking down at the girl like he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off her. “I haven’t seen this one.”

  Amy-Lynn lifted up on her toes to look over his shoulder. “That’s shortly after they met. Momma had just moved from Mexico. She said Daddy was her first friend.”

  He turned, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Sounds familiar.”

  She grunted. “Yeah, history repeating itself.”

  He frowned at her negative response and waited for her to continue. She didn’t. He set the frame down and his eyes landed on another photo, tucked in the back. “Is that our prom picture?”

  A nervous giggle escaped her lips. “Momma’s sentimental.”

  He grinned and nodded. “It’s always Isabel.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight into his body. She stiffened before melting into him.

  “That guy,” he said, tapping a finger on his face in the photo, “had no idea what was coming later than night.”

  She rolled her eyes. “So cliché. Losing your virginity on prom night.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Seventeen-year-olds aren’t known for inspired ideas. Good thing we’ve learned a thing or two since then.”

  Her face flushed from pink to red, and she unwound from his embrace. “Do you want the rest of the tour?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “Does it include your bedroom?”

  She playfully swatted his chest. “Maybe lunch is a better idea. I’m sure the soup is hot by now.”

  She turned back toward the kitchen. Something was up. She’d been the one to initiate sex the other night, but ever since then, she’d gotten uncomfortable any time he even hinted at a repeat performance.

  Was she reluctant to do it again because he was leaving? Did she think he’d wrap up his gig at the station and never look back? If that was it, he’d remedy that this afternoon.

  An all-too-familiar nagging feeling crawled up his spine. Or maybe she still didn’t think he was a good long-term bet? He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He couldn’t ask her for more if he kept doubting himself.

  Remember, talk first, Matt. Get everything out in the open. Then they could move on to other, more satisfying, things.

  “Matt?” she called from the kitchen. “Are you coming?”

  “Coming,” he said, doing his best to ignore the doubts. He turned into the kitchen. She’d set bowls on colorful woven placemats at the bar. His bread lay sliced on a cutting board, butter in a crock to the side.

  “Hope you don’t mind eating at the bar. We rarely use the dining table. This floor is easier to clean with a toddler just learning how to hold a spoon.”

  “I’ve been using a spoon for a while now.”

  She laughed. “I meant Wyatt.”

  “Oh,” he nodded, biting back a smile, “okay.” He slid onto a bar stool and watched her efficient movements as she poured a glass of amber liquid. She held up the pitcher. “Sweet tea?”

  “Now I know you’ve been in Nashville for a while.”

  She pulled a face. “Do you want some or not?”

  He held a glass out to her. “Yes, please.”

  She placed the glasses in front of their bowls and moved around the bar, climbing onto her stool. She placed a napkin in her lap and moved her spoon and knife, turning her bowl to the left three times.

  She looked up, finding his eyes on her, and blushed. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Mac,” he said, sliding his fingers over hers. “I’ve known you for a long time. You don’t need to explain yourself. The way you move through this world is uniquely you and nothing that needs an apology.”

  “Thank you,” she said, staring at her bowl. A beat passed. Then another before she lifted her head, confidence back in her expression. “Now eat. Before it gets cold.”

  He dipped a spoon into the bowl. The smell was embroidered into the memories of his youth. How many times had Isabel fed him this specific meal?

  He took a bite and groaned. “It’s good to know some things never change. This is exactly how I remember it. It’s amazing.”

  “Momma will be happy to hear that.”

  “Did you tell her I was coming here today?”

  “Yes.” She looked back down at her bowl, her spoon aimlessly moving through the soup. “They’re both working today, but I also asked them not to come home, so we’d have some time to talk—just the two of us.”

  “About that,” he said, after swallowing another bite of Isabel’s creation. “There’re some things I need to tell you.”

  “Yeah?” she said, still not making eye contact with him.

  “Mac, please look at me.”

  She turned her head, her eyes still squeezed closed. She slowly opened them with a shake of her head. “I have things to tell you too.”

  Could she be ready to admit she loved him, too?

  “Can I go first?”

  She drummed her fingers on the counter. “I’m not sure that’s the best thing.”

  “I need to get it out before I lose my nerve. Mac,” he said, grabbing her hand. “It’s always been you. No one ever —"

  “No,” she said, standing up and walking to the other side of the bar.

  “No?” he said, his hopes deflating.

  “Before you go any further, there is something you need to know.”

  “Mac, I know you’ve always had reservations about us. About my job, but . . .”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what?”

  She opened her mouth to speak just as her phone played “We Are Family” by Sister Sledge. She looked from him to her phone. “That’s Jess’s ring tone. I really should get that.”

  He sighed. He wanted to throw the phone out the door, but that wouldn’t be honoring all the things she
held most dear.

  “Family first,” he said, gesturing to the phone.

  She nodded and hit Accept. “Jess?”

  He could hear rapid talking coming from the other end but couldn’t make out words. She walked into the other room, and he tucked back into his soup. This was not going at all like he planned.

  When she finally reappeared, her mouth was pulled tight. “I’m sorry to cut this short—I wanted to talk to you—but I need to go get Wyatt. Apparently, he spiked a fever and the daycare called Jess.”

  “And she can’t get him?” He knew he sounded uncaring, but this was supposed to be the day they cleared the air. The day they started the next part of their life—together.

  “She just started a new job.”

  He shook his head. “You do too much for them.”

  She straightened, turned to him, and gave him a serious look. “This is different.”

  He set his spoon down and rubbed between his eyes. “How?”

  She grabbed her keys from a hook on the wall. “I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to go pick up a sick little boy. We’ll need to reschedule.”

  “No.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”

  His posture softened, and he attempted to douse the irritation swirling in his stomach. “I’ll go with you. We can get Wyatt. Settle him back here and then continue our conversation.”

  “It might not work that way.”

  “I know.” He grabbed her hands and laced their fingers together. “But you carry so much burden, let me help you with this.”

  She nodded. “Fine. Can you move your truck? It’s blocking me in.”

  “I can drive,” he offered.

  “The car seat is in my car.”

  He snapped his finger. “Right. Forgot about that.”

  Matt grabbed his keys and headed out the back door. Maybe it wasn’t the right decision to continue after this interruption, but he wanted this done.

  If she rebuffed him, he’d have the weekend to lick his wounds before he was due back in the studio on Monday. Because, dammit, he would see that through to the end.

  But more than that, he wanted to start his life with Amy-Lynn as soon as possible.

  “Tía and Dad!” Wyatt yelled when Matt and Amy-Lynn walked into the daycare center.