Page 51 of Thirsty Bodyguard Summer

Shane read it again.

His thumb hovered above the screen.

The band remained quiet behind him. The photographers couldn’t see the display from their section, but their lenses were still pointed toward the stage.

I shifted enough to block the clearest angle without making the movement obvious.

Shane typed.

SHANE:

I will. Thank you for saying it.

He sent the message and locked the phone.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes.” His voice came out rougher than usual. He cleared it. “I didn’t know if he’d watch.”

“He wants you to take the stage.”

“For myself.”

“That’s what he said.”

His gaze dropped to the piano keys.

I rested my hand against the back of his shoulder. The contact was brief and hidden from most of the pavilion by my position.

“He didn’t have to send that,” Shane said.

“No, he didn’t.”

His fingers closed around the edge of the bench.

Then he drew one slow breath and stood.

“Let’s finish.”

He didn’t show the text to the band or turn it into part of the comeback story.

He put the phone in his pocket and returned to center stage.

They ran the final transition, the piano exit, and the last vocal cue. Shane followed every route I cleared. When I held him at the wing for a camera cart to pass, he waited without trying to bargain away the delay.

At the end of the set, the musicians broke into applause.

Shane bowed with both arms spread. “Please save some enthusiasm for the paying customers.”

The drummer pointed a stick toward me. “Your bodyguard clapped once.”

Shane’s grin widened. “Cassidy, is that true?”

“I acknowledged the rehearsal concluded.”

“That counts.”

“It didn’t.”