Give yourself permission to dream, little one, my Nana used to say. Dream big and wide and run full speed with arms stretched out wide to catch those elusive dreams.

Did I forget that? Did I forget her?

No. I forgot me.

It’s as if I’ve awakened from the dead. I place my hand over my mouth to keep the sound of surprise from escaping.

There I am.

More important, Where have I been?

Hiding behind messy topknots and sweatpants mostly.

Maybe Leandra was right. She smiles and waves at me from across the room as she plops down at a table near the piano where Cassidy and Jaggerd are already sitting. I wave and they wave back but Jag looks strangely unsettled.

I sang at Dallas’s wedding but it’s not something I typically do unless it’s backup vocals. That night I saw Gavin for the first time in months, I was just messing around because the girls talked me into it. This was not what I pictured for my life, but I can finally see how Dallas did find some joy in performing solo. It’s like doing a trapeze act with no net.

Somehow my life has taken an abrupt left turn as of late.

I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Excited.

Scared.

Anxious as hell, really.

My eyes scan the room without my permission. I pretend I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know exactly who I’m hoping to see.

He’s probably busy working, Dixie, I tell myself. He may be getting off soon but he might not be leaving alone. His complicated blonde could be here.

I feel sick.

Nothing I try to console myself with is really helping matters much. I feel like all of my nerves have been stretched to their absolute breaking point and I’m on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

A few minutes after I’ve stepped into the small backstage area, which apparently also doubles as storage for stacked cardboard boxes, someone closes in behind me.

“Hey there, Bluebird. Or should I call you Songbird now?” His breath tickles the back of my neck and the delicious heat shimmies down my spine.

“Gavin,” I say, turning to face him. “Heard there was a girl looking for you.”

His gaze doesn’t even waver. “Oh yeah? Too bad for her. I already found the girl I’m looking for.”

My nose scrunches, my unfailing tell that I am confused. “What’s with you these days, Mr. Smooth Pants? You sure are laying on the charm lately.”

“And here I thought I was just being nice.”

There’s something about the way he says the word that lulls me into a false sense of security. I feel like I’m being hypnotized by the seductive lilt to his voice, the liquid warmth in his eyes. It’s disorienting and mesmerizing.

“Nice isn’t really the word I’d use to describe you, Garrison.”

“And what word would you use?”

Being put on the spot so suddenly flusters me. I’m unprepared for this pop quiz. “I, um, I’m not—”

“I don’t want to distract you tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing you play, but if my being in the crowd will throw you off or something, I can—”

“Arrogant, Gav. That’s the word I’d use.” I smirk at him. “And don’t worry, I can perform just fine with you front and center.”

He appears to take my defiance as a challenge. He leans forward to whisper in my ear and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a puddle. “You sure? Be honest, Bluebird.”

Heat creeps up my neck and spread across my face. His voice lowers as he leans in closer.

“Tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll walk out the door right now. No questions asked.”

“I want you. Here,” I say, hearing the waver in my voice.

“Good. Because I want you, too.” He rests his forehead on mine. “Here,” he says, gently kissing me on the temple. “Here,” he breathes while brushing his lips down my jawline. “And a few other places not appropriate to place my mouth on in public. Unless you’re into that.”

My blood has turned to gasoline and Gavin Garrison has tossed a match on me.

“Gav,” I whisper, turning away shyly because we’re visible to the folks sitting at the front tables. “People can see us.”

One person specifically appears particularly disconcerted about our exchange. Jag’s normally handsome face is twisted into a mask of unadulterated disgust.

I shoot him a questioning “what the hell is your problem” glance and he looks away as if he can no longer stand the sight of me.

Surely he’s not jealous. He’s here on a date and anyone with eyes can see he’s enamored with Cassidy.

Men confound me and I’ve realized it’s because deep down, they’re mostly little boys in oversize bodies.

“Five minutes,” a guy calls out as he walks by. “Then you’re on.”

“That’s Cal, my boss,” Gavin says, nodding at the man’s retreating figure. “He’s kind of a dick but running a bar this size can be stressful. His bedside manner isn’t the greatest.”

“I bet. Maybe that’s what he’s got you for.”

“The only person seeing my bedside manner is you, baby.”

I roll my eyes to cover the effect his words have on me and I glance at the piano sitting in the corner. Taunting me. Daring me. Beckoning me. Musical instruments call to me in some strange way—as if they beg me to tame them. Gavin’s soul calls to me in a similar fashion—only his is a siren song promising unimaginable ecstasy at the price of utter and complete obliteration. “Guess I should get out there.”

I take a step forward and Gavin pulls me into the shadows. “Knock ’em dead, Bluebird. I’d say good luck but you don’t need it. You have so much more than luck when it comes to music.”

I lift my eyes to his penetrating gaze. “I want to believe that.”

“You will. One day. Promise.”

“Hope so.”

He nods like he was expecting this answer even though I can see the pain that flashes behind his eyes. “I’ll spend every day reminding you if you’ll let me.”

“That would mean spending every day with me, Gav. Which clearly you have no intention of doing anytime soon.”

“I’m trying, babe,” he says with sincerity. He winks at me and I try not to melt into a puddle in the floor. “A few weeks and I’ll be off probation and if the battle goes well, maybe we’ll be back on the road together soon. If you want that, that is.”

“Of course I want that. It’s just—”

A booming voice announces me onstage and there is a surprising amount of cheering from the audience. I start to turn my head in that direction but Gavin catches my jaw with a firm but gentle grip. “Have a great show, Bluebird.”

Without asking for permission, he lowers his mouth to mine and gives me a tender kiss full of unspoken promises.

“Don’t tease me, Garrison.”

“Never.” He kisses me gently again, then once on my nose and once on my forehead before squeezing me into a hug. “Not a tease, sweetness. A promise.”

I give myself a few seconds to enjoy the warmth of him, to indulge in the clean, male scent of him.

Reluctantly, I pull out of his arms and make my way to the stage.

Never in my life have I been so grateful for glaring, blinding stage lights. I can’t actually make out any faces in the crowd, which is probably for the best.

I introduce myself and am greeted with a surprising second round of cheers. Sitting down at the piano, I shake my head, because truthfully, I am not a solo act and I’ve never wanted to be one. Yet, here I am.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble under my breath to myself.

My fingertips familiarize themselves with the keys, caressing them once before I launch into my first song.

And then . . .

Then I am lost.

And found.

Then I am free.

12 | Gavin

“WHERE IS HE? Where’s my baby?”

The first word that comes immediately to mind is No.

“Baby? Are you here?” A loud rapping sound comes from the bar and it’s almost loud enough to be heard over Dixie playing onstage. “Gavin Michael! Gavy-poo! Where are yooouu?”