Page 6 of Nashville Lights

“I like your necklace,” she whispers.

The necklace was a gift from a Nashville jewelry designer who randomly sent it to me. I’m definitely not an influencer. When I have time to post on social media at all, it’s usually something to do with the band, or my brothers, or being on tour. Occasionally I’ll post things about my life on the road or a good restaurant recommendation or a brand of clothing I like. I don’t have time to do more with my platform than that, but I do have a huge following. I’m sure most of the people who follow me are hoping to catch a glimpse of whichever brother they’re most in love with. Last I checked, I had around seven million followers.

People and companies often send me gifts or products they’re hoping I’ll promote. My assistants go through all the stuff and, if they think it’s something I’ll like, they’ll show it to me. They put the rest of it aside and at this point most of my spare room in Kade’s building off Broadway is full of these gifts.

My assistant showed me this necklace a few months ago and I loved it. It was made by a woman who handcrafts one-off pieces of jewelry. At the time, I put it on and posted about it. The woman later reached out to my assistant and told her to thank me. She’d sold out of every piece she’s ever made and has enough commissions to buy herself a house.

I haven’t worn the necklace for a while but saw it on my dresser as I was leaving this morning and, on a whim, put it on.

But now, I think there’s someone who likes the necklace even more than I do. I reach for the clasp and take it off. “I think it would look prettier on you, Daisy. Would you like to wear it?”

Her blue eyes get even wider. She nods.

I put the necklace carefully around her neck and do up the clasp. “There. It’s yours now.”

Tobias and Dakota have both watched this exchange and Tobias winks at me. “What do you say to Rox, Daisy?”

“Thank you.” Daisy holds my hand. “Do you want to help me color? I have two pink crayons.”

“I’d love to.”

She hands me one and we color as the lively conversation swirls around us.

Leo is still giving us a play-by-play of the inferno Luke caused with the barbecue.

It’s like slipping into a warm embrace, this easy, familiar banter that feels like it’s part of my soul.

Tobias, always the peacekeeper, chimes in from wherehe’s gone back to his task of meticulously chopping vegetables and dumping them into a boiling pot. “Boys, there’s only one way to settle this. A cook-off. We vote on it. The panel’s decisions are final. Loser does dishes for a week.”

“Deal,” both brothers say in unison, and we all laugh again, knowing full well this “cook-off” will be another epic Boone family event—which will probably involve flames, charred ribs and possibly wrestling.

“We’ll do it in your new kitchen, Tobe,” Leo suggests.

“You absolutely will not go anywherenearmy new kitchen,” Tobias says. “That kitchen is my new sanctuary and I donotwant it being burned to the ground before we’ve even welcomed our first guests.”

Betty-Ann wields her wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. “You also won’t be doing it in this kitchen,” she adds. “You can have a ‘barbecue-off’ and you can do it outside. Now why don’t the two of you channel all that energy you seem to have for bickering and use it to do something productive, like set the table.”

Dakota rolls her eyes playfully. “Mom, you know they’re allergic to anything that resembles housework.”

“Oh, I certainly do know it.” But the boys—or, more accurately,men—are dutifully getting the knives, forks and plates.

Even though Betty-Ann scolds her children, she obviously adores having them around her. I remember her saying when we were kids that she’d rather have herchildren making mischief at home than doing it somewhere else. “How are your brothers, Roxie? You still keeping them in line? You always did, even as a little girl.”

“They’re harder work now than they ever were as kids,” I laugh.

Leo leans against the counter next to me. “Seriously, Rox, the boys’ latest album is all anyone can talk about around here. You’re turning them into legends.”

“I just manage schedules and egos. The music is all them.”

“And you couldn’t have done the same for us, huh?” Luke smirks, kissing Betty-Ann’s cheek as he passes her, carrying a stack of plates. “You can manage my ego anytime.”

I get up to help.

“You stay right there,” Dakota orders me. “That butterfly needs more pink. Seriously though, Rox, you should listen to these three. They’ve got a local following now.”

This gets my full attention. “Who does?”

“Nah,” Leo elbows Dakota. “We’re just amateurs compared to the Tucker boys.”

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