He needed Kayla. This was her nomination as much as his. He couldn’t even think about what this meant without her.
He reached for his cell, then remembered the battery was flat and picked up the land-line, but his hands were suddenly shaking so much he kept missing numbers.
Maddie skipped into the kitchen carrying a comb. “There are more people at the door.”
“The press.” Dimity leapt into action. “Seth, entertain the kids. Moss, keep cleaning the floor. Jared, put down the phone, look humble, yet confident and take that damn apron off!”
Chapter Seven
Still lost in a Jimmy Stewart afterglow, Kayla arrived home at seven forty-five to a front yard full of cars and motorbikes, one of which she recognized as Moss’s. She’d switched on her cell outside the theater to see that Dimity had texted a message:
Great news. Phone Jared at home!
She’d figured it could wait another fifteen minutes until she saw him. Was this why he’d wanted her out of the house, to get ready for a surprise party? Because nothing said great news like trashing the house you’re about to put on the market.
When she opened the front door, music blasted from the speakers, and not Christmas carols either. Hard rock. The living room was crowded with Rage’s tour family—roadies, techs, security, a lawyer or two—all of whom greeted her with hollers and raised glasses.
Plastering a smile on her face, she dodged attempts to stall her and stalked through the house looking for Jared, moving a glass of red wine sitting perilously near the edge of the coffee table en route. And we have freaking white carpet! On what planet was this stupid, inconsiderate party helping me with Christmas? Bottles and cans of alcohol were piled up on every available surface and a cigarette butt smouldered in her rubber plant. I’m going to kill Mr. “I’ve got this.”
The dining room table had been shoved against the wall to clear a dance floor, and she spotted Moss among the throng, rocking out with two women, his body moving in a sinuous seduction. She scowled when he threw her his bad boy grin. “No hookups in my house this time,” she mouthed, and he blew her a kiss, unrepentant.
Son of a bitch. Where was her husband? On a mission now, she stormed into the kitchen, where she found pasta sauce on the stove, empty pizza boxes piling out of the trash can, two people making out in the pantry, and her best platter dumped in the sink with dirty dinosaur plates.
The kids. Spinning on her heel, she pushed through the dancers and hurried toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. Seth was leaning against the jamb, a beer in hand.
“All under control,” he called above the music, and showed her the baby monitor, tucked into the breast pocket of his plaid jacket. “Jared is checking on them now.” The tawny-haired drummer’s smile held the ‘trust me, girl’ warmth that had inspired numerous marriage proposals from female fans, and Kayla relaxed. Because you could trust Seth.
If Jared was looking out for the kids maybe she wouldn’t kill him. Maybe diaper duty for a month would be punishment enough.
“Great news,” Seth yelled over the music as he let her pass.
Kayla nodded, smiling. Nothing can justify this.
Her husband was closing the door to Maddie’s bedroom. When he saw her walking down the hallway he laughed and opened his arms wide. “Behold.”
“I’m beholding,” she said grimly. Insult to injury, her husband was half drunk. “Jared, what the hell?”
“That was my next question.” He dropped his arms. “Why isn’t your fucking cell turned on? I wanted to be the one to break the good news.”
“Oh my God!” She suddenly got this. “Zander’s singing voice will recover.”
Jared’s dark gaze sharpened, then he smiled the most radiant smile. “Kayla Walker, you have a Grammy-nominated song written for you.”
It took her a few seconds to process his words. Then she gasped.
He opened his arms again. “Only the best song of the fucking year.”
Half-laughing, half-crying she cannoned into them. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”
“I still can’t believe it!”
“This is so…!” Filled with the most incredible joy, she lost the power of speech again.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “I know, right?”
Unable to express themselves coherently, they kissed. Kissed harder. He tasted of vodka and boozy happiness.
“I’m a little drunk on shots.”
She stroked his stubbled cheek. “Yeah, I picked that up.”
“The roadies say it’s a tradition.”
“Funny how many traditions the roadies have involving partying. When did you hear?”
“I was planning a sexy night in for us,” he started to explain. “I even got the house cleaned as a surprise.”