“Yes. You’re bringing her to this last dinner with the Reillys and making it clear to Presley once and for all that you’re off the market.”
“Dad, Sami might not be able to make it. Her schedule is pretty hectic.”
“Tomorrow night,” he says. “Seven o’clock at the country club.”
“But—”
“Seven. O. Clock.” Then he nods at the door, and it’s Steve Brower, managing partner, dismissing me.
I walk out and take the stairs down to my floor, slumping in my desk chair when I reach it.
This is bad. My parents don’t like the country club. It’s where they go when they—specifically, my dad—want to do some networking. It’s an “I mean business” kind of place that doesn’t look like a business place. Literally its only redeeming quality is that they make a good steak. But you can’t stay open in Austin if you can’t cook steak.
Somehow, I have to convince Sami that she wants to come to this dinner and be my fake girlfriend. And meet my parents. And Presley, who will be gunning for her.
Or . . .
I consider the options. Maybe I’ll play in traffic instead.
Chapter Eleven
Sami
Theshowwedidlast week—the one where Josh busted me—was good. No,great. But it was a turning point, and tonight’s show was even better. It’s like each of us in the band has realized we’re legit—people want to see us. So we went hard tonight, and the crowd ate it up. In fact, we had no merch to sell after the show—we’ve never had a need—but the venue manager was irritated at having to field so many requests for it.
I pull into my parking spot at home and pound on the steering wheel, grinning like a loony tune.He was annoyed that we didn’t have merch.Last month, we couldn’t havegivena T-shirt away, and tonight we could have sold dozens.
Tomorrow we’re playing at a tailgate festival in San Antonio, providing the live music while self-proclaimed tailgate master chefs go for glory. There’s no way we’ll have any merchandise to sell by then, but maybe that’s okay. We’re basically going to be background music, so I doubt we’ll have the same demand. But for next weekend, at the South Door, we better have something to hawk in the club.
It’ll take money. Our usual band agreement is that we split whatever we earn from a gig five ways, but I’ll talk to the guys tomorrow and see if they’ll pool our check from the festival organizers and use it to pay for an initial run of band shirts. We’ll just use the logo Luther’s friend made for us, and I’ll spend the morning researching the best and fastest way to get the shirts made before the South Door show.
I climb out of the car and practically dance into the house, a knit cap on to hide my hair because I came straight from the club. A thorough washing in the shower gets the pink out, and the steam finally relaxes me, calming the buzz.
A few minutes later, I’m in warm pajamas and thick socks but not quite ready to sleep. I step onto my balcony, wrapped in my comforter, and smile when I spot Josh’s shadowy form outside. I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve come to hope—maybe even expect—that I’ll find him out here each time I step out. I’ve definitely been on my balcony way more than usual in the chilly January night air.
I settle into my chair. “Hey, neighbor.”
“Hey, yourself,” he answers. He sounds way more tired than I do.
“You okay?”
He sighs. “Sure.”
“So that’s a no. What’s up?” There’s a long silence before he answers.
“You ever lie?”
“Likeeverever? White lies? Stuff like that?”
“Maybe bigger.”
“How big? Defrauding the federal government big? Like don’t tell me anything else because I don’t want to be subpoenaed in your trial big?”
“Those are the two categories of lies?” He sounds amused. “Your new haircut looks nice or federal indictment? No middle ground?”
“What’s a middle ground lie to you?”
“Let’s say you invent a girlfriend you don’t have to get your dad’s client and his daughter off your back.”
