“Money?” Melody said. “What money?”
Ah, shit.
Delaney tore her gaze from his. “It’s nothing. Just a little cash I had with my phone. It’s all good.”
If she told Melody that forty thousand dollars had been stolen along with her wallet and laptop, there was no way her sister could keep that quiet. She’d tell her parents, and then her parents would call the police, and then Donna would get arrested, and then Delaney would be all over the news again in yet another ridiculous scandal, and Grant would be dragged in right along with her. No police, no media. No way. “It’s all under control,” she lied to her sister. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
She disconnected the call before her sister could ask anything else, and set the phone on the nightstand. She slid back down so she was lying on her back next to Grant. Her heart thumped erratically. Pure stress. Probably. She pulled in a deep breath through her nose and blew it out slowly. That did nothing to calm her mind. It only made her feel light-headed.
Grant was on his side, facing her, with his arm drawn up under his head, and since his shirt was wrapped around her pillow, protecting her from all manner of boogie-woogie ickiness, he was bare chested. That wasn’t helping to calm her state of mind either.
“My sister doesn’t have a signal for my phone anymore. We are flying blind.”
He reached over and rested his hand on her belly. The move wasn’t so much sensual as it was comfortable and comforting. Her heart took an extra whump and began to slow. She covered his hand with her own but stared up at the dingy ceiling.
“So, we’ll do like you said,” Grant said quietly. “We’ll head to Memphis. We can go to my aunt’s house, and if they’re not there, we wait. She’s got pets and a job. It’s not as if she can disappear the same way my mom can. And she’s not batshit crazy like my mom either, so I have to believe as soon as she hears the message I left at her house, she’ll call us. I’d bet your forty grand that Tina doesn’t even know my mom has that bag.”
Delaney turned her head toward him. “What if they’ve separated? What if your aunt comes home but your mom has gone off someplace else?”
His lips pressed into a line and his eyes clouded. “If that happens, Lane, then we call the police. Yes, she’s my mother, and God knows I don’t want to do that, but she broke the law and stole your money. You don’t deserve this. This isn’t about some twenty-dollar watch from a jewelry store. This is serious cash we’re talking about. Money you’ve worked for and saved. Right?”
The question was tossed out as an afterthought. A reminder that he wasn’t wholly convinced she hadn’t just stolen it herself. She could hardly blame him for doubting her. No sane, logical person would be in this predicament. Still, she couldn’t keep a little edge from her voice.
“Yes, Grant. It’s my money that I worked for and saved. I got my first job when I was fifteen and I always put part of every paycheck into the bank. My grandmother taught me to do that. God knows, I didn’t learn it from either of my parents.”
He looked convinced, finally, and began tracing a design over her abdomen with his index finger. “So, what was your first job?”
“Piano tutor.” The answer slipped out before she’d had a chance to think it through. That finger on her stomach was like a magic wand dissolving her ability to lie, and although he was touching her stomach, she felt it farther south.
“A piano tutor? Really?”
She nodded. “Yes. There was this little place by my house, kind of a pay-as-you-can sort of music studio, so most of the people who went there didn’t have very much money. I only made a few bucks a lesson but it was probably my most favorite job. The little kids were adorable and sweet, and so excited about using real instruments. The place was noisy and hot but I loved it.”
She hadn’t thought about that studio in a long time. It was founded by a handful of musicians and her father had talked her into taking the job. Then he’d come in every Wednesday just to volunteer his time. It wasn’t much of a secret he’d hoped one of his girls would catch the fever and follow in his footsteps, but only Melody had any real talent. Delaney was a marginally decent singer, but she’d never felt the drive, the hunger to go professional. Maybe because she’d seen what it did to him when the bright lights faded and the fans went home. Still, she was pretty good on piano, and loved to play. She mentally added that to the growing list of things she missed about home. Her piano.
“You must be pretty good if you can teach other people,” Grant said, still tracing, still sending ripples.
“I’m OK. I started playing when I was about three, so I’ve had lots of practice.”