Page 29 of Sing For Me

The scowl grows. “It’s a big deal to me.”

That pulls me up short. He’s staring at me the same way he had in his shop. With those intense blue eyes that look as though they can see clear into my heart.

“Then why didn’t you call?” I hear myself whisper and I want to kick my own ass at the vulnerability in my voice.

He smooths his hand over his beard again, something I’m getting the feeling he does when agitated, and looks away. “I just…when we talked that day, I didn’t know who you were. And then one of the other artists mentioned you looked familiar.”

My stomach bottoms out. Just like that, I feel a hundred times worse than I did out there in front of the hordes of photographers. Exposed and vulnerable and so very close to falling apart.

“You decided I was probably too fucked up to be worth your time, right?” My voice sounds flat, hollow, and Will’s gaze snaps back to mine, his eyes wide and surprised.

“What?No. Of course not.”

But I don’t see what other conclusion I’m supposed to make. He realized who I was, probably remembered hearing something about the poor pop star who’d been at the center of a tragic fire. Maybe he even looked me up. Read about how I hadn’t performed ever since. That I was rarely seen in public anymore. The speculation that I could have been disfigured, too scared and broken to be a pop princess anymore.

“Eva.” His voice is low, urgent, and he reaches for my arm again. This time, I do jerk it away, and he winces. “I promise, it has nothing to do with you. If anything, I’m the one who’s a fucked-up mess.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Which you somehow realized after finding out who I was?”

“No.” I watch his jaw flex a few times, frustration bleeding off him. “I don’t have the best track record when it comes to the whole celebrity thing,” he suddenly blurts, the words coming fast like he’s eager to be rid of them. “The music industry can be a really messed up place.”

I have to bite back a bitter laugh. He definitely doesn’t need to tell me that.

He bends his knees a little so he can look more fully into my eyes. “I just freaked out. It, uh, brought back some not so pleasant memories. But it has nothing to do with you, okay? I promise.”

I study him for a moment. He certainly looks sincere. I might even categorize his eyes as pleading. But what does it really matter? He clearly doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, whatever his reasons might be. And tonight is hard enough without having to stand here and hash out all the reasons why.

I manage a nearly honest smile. “I believe you. It’s fine, really. I’m fine. You can stop worrying about it, okay?” I nod over at the bid sheet, forgotten on the table. “I hope your donation brings in a ton of money. That was really cool of you, offering up your time like that.” I take a step back, and another. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Wait.”

I gesture behind my back. “My friend is out there, I should really—”

“There you are,” a voice booms behind me, and we both turn to see a man approaching. Like Will, he’s wearing a black tux. But where Will went with a black-on-black ensemble—black jacket, black dress shirt, black tie—this man is wearing a suit in deep midnight blue. A color that sets off his equally dark blue eyes.

Eyes that look exactly like Will’s.

“Your mother’s been looking for you,” the man says, gripping Will’s shoulder. He’s shorter by several inches, but there’s no denying the similarity between the two.

There’s also no denying the fact that I know his face. I’ve seen it plastered on countless magazine covers throughout my life, not to mention on talk shows, award show performances, the freaking hall of fame induction concert a few years ago.

The man is none other than Cash Ransome, lead guitarist for one of the most famous, celebrated bands of the last quarter century.

And he’s also, quite clearly, Will’s father.