Page 45 of Extended Bridge (Passionate Beats #2)

We discuss mundane things, like how beautiful the funeral was and our amazement at how many people came to the wake. After a pause, she says, “You know, I swore to my sister that I would keep an eye out for you. She really wanted you to settle down.” She picks invisible lint off of my blazer.

Can’t she give this a rest? Even today? I sigh. “There’s no one in my life at the moment. Frankly, I’m not interested.”

“I understand. But getting through tough times is easier when you have someone by your side. And celebrating the good times is better, too. I intend to hold you to the promise you made to your mother and me before your career took off.” She looks deep into my eyes. Her green gaze mirrors mine. And Mom’s.

Trying not to squirm, I say, “I’ve kept my promise, Aunt Doreen. I don’t have a bad boy reputation.”

“That’s true, thanks to your publicist, but we both know that running through women like tissues is not exactly living up to the spirit of your pledge.

” I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. “Just think about what I said. And let me know if I can help you in any way, honey. I love you.” She gives me a peck on the cheek, and after another round of goodbyes, leaves the house with her family.

Aunt Doreen’s comments remind me of my last conversation with Mom—how can it be I won’t have another one with her?

I try to swallow over the lump in my throat, but end up coughing.

Mom made me promise I would settle down.

And I can’t deny that Aunt Doreen’s words have struck a chord.

At the cemetery, everyone had a hand to hold.

Even my younger brother. I had Dad’s, and he needed me. But it’s not the same.

Taking off my blazer, I walk into the kitchen and roll up my sleeves. Grateful for something productive to do, I join Dad in packaging up all the leftover food and arranging it in the refrigerator. It looks like casseroles mated in there.

I’m exhausted, but suspect neither one of us is quite ready to face going upstairs. As has become our nightly custom since I flew back home, he pours two fingers of scotch for each of us. Tonight, I bring the stack of sympathy cards from the hallway to the dining room table before sitting down.

“Want to look at these?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

I hold up the first card and glance at the scribbled signature. “This one’s from Josh.”

Dad smiles at the card with the violin on the front. “You still paying for his private violin lessons?”

“Yeah.” I squint, trying to read his chicken scratch. “He sends his ‘condulances.’” We both smile at his attempt and clink our scotches.

Jessie Anderson’s distinctive handwriting catches my eye. “Jessie and Amanda sent a card.”

“Another one in the long line of ladies you’ve dated.” He uses air quotes around “dated.”

“Yeah, well that didn’t end up how I expected.” Jessie is gorgeous, and when Rose set us up on a publicity date, I thought we’d be in bed within hours. Shaking my head, I trace her girlfriend’s name on the card. The two of them are great together. Like Mom and Dad are. Were.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Jessie’s filming her TV show, so they couldn’t be here. They send their love.”

“Jules—Julie—your mother,” his voice catches.

I reach over and pat him on the shoulder while he collects himself.

“She never missed one episode of Jessie’s show.

She had a group of friends over every Thursday night for a viewing party.

” He smiles. “I made myself scarce those nights. To be honest, they scared me a little.”

We both laugh, then stop short as if we did something wrong. Maybe it’s too soon for laughter. Dad knocks back his scotch, then stares blankly into his empty glass.

I reach out for another card, but drop my hand. I can’t concentrate any longer. “Let’s call it a night, Dad.”

Sad brown eyes meet mine. He looks so tired. “I’ll put the glasses in the dishwasher and you get the lights.”

Our chores completed, he slowly leads the way upstairs. On the landing, Mom’s perfume lingers. Dad pulls me in for a long hug and whispers, “Goodnight, son. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Walking to the doorway farthest from my parents’ room, I enter my childhood bedroom.

The room is as I left it ages ago, filled with all the stuff I once considered important.

Posters of musicians—some of whom I’m privileged to call friends now.

The thought makes me smile. Posters of models, generally glistening wet.

Seems like my tastes haven’t changed much over the years. Just my access.

I sit down on my old twin bed, feeling horribly alone, wishing a woman were here to put her arms around me and tell me everything will be okay. I’m thirty-two fucking years old. Shouldn’t I have someone special in my life by now?

Images of Rose from today replay in my mind. The connection I felt when she touched me was . . . What am I thinking? She works for me. Besides, she’s all business, all the time.

Shit, I’m living the life most guys only dream about.

I have money, fame, millions of fans across the globe, houses on both coasts, people to do my bidding at the snap of my fingers and a very steady diet of gorgeous women.

There can be nothing wrong with my lifestyle if it’s the American dream. Right?

Looking up to the ceiling, lyrics start to form. Grabbing my trusty notebook, I scribble down the words that are tripping over themselves to come out.