Page 123 of Beautiful Distraction

He’s probably right.

After five months, the rumors began to die down, and thetabloids moved on. The next big headline made its way to the front pages, andKellan was forgotten.

Mile High hasn’t achieved the same success. It’s not becauseof the new lead singer—the replacement is almost as good as Kellan, butonly almost. With the mask on, they even look a bit alike, and people have beenclaiming that the story of K. Taylor’s dropout was nothing but a propagandaspin to get media coverage.

As it happens, Mile High has slowly been disappearing offthe radar, maybe because the new lead singer doesn’t quite have K. Taylor’sallure.

To me, they don’t look alike.

I would recognize Kellan’s broad shoulders and magneticgreen eyes anywhere.

It’s a new band—a bunch of eighteen-year-olds fromMississippi—that has taken the world by storm. Including Mandy.

Talk about so not being loyal to her old band. She even had thenerve to ask me to go see them live, which, of course, I declined politely.

It’s one of those little secrets I’ll take with me to thegrave because I’d never think of saying something to Kellan that might hurthim.

The only thing I regret is not having accepted his marriageproposal that night when I heard him sing for the first time. Back then, Iconvinced myself that it was just a joke, even though it had felt very real.

He hasn’t mentioned it again, and I’m not going to raise thesubject.

I guess he’s forgotten. I guess, too, that at that time Iwasn’t ready.

But I am now. More so because I’m expecting.

Only, I have no idea how Kellan will react.

The thought of telling him makes me a little sick.

I still haven’t told Mandy about it because she can neverkeep her mouth shut, and I’m afraid she’ll drop not-so-subtle hints to Kellanat every opportunity. Part of me wants to pick up the phone and call her, whileanother part of me refrains from doing so. I’ve been torn about it every singletime we talk on the phone, and that’s almost daily.

Music is still a huge part of Kellan’s life. It’s insidehim, in his blood. It’s his way to express his soul, much like a writer livesfor pouring their heart out through words. He often lets me sit in a corner,out of his vision, listening to his beautiful, smoky voice when he’s composingone of his songs, which he usually goes on to play at Sharon’s bar on aSaturday night whenever he feels like it.

***

It’s early evening, and Kellan’s not back yet. I’m sittingon the couch in the living room, cradling my laptop on my lap, a mug of coffeeon the side table, when I hear the door open. I look up from my notes to Snipertrotting toward me.

“Good boy, Sniper.” My hand reaches out to pat him, when Inotice there’s something in his mouth. He lets it drop to my feet. I pick upthe small piece of paper and laugh. “I hope you didn’t dig this up from somegrave.”

The dog wags his tail in response.

I unfold the paper and realize it’s a handwritten note thatreads:

Take Brenna and cometo the barn.

I put my laptop aside and rise from my sitting positionquickly. Even though Kellan can be pretty monosyllabic at times, his note makesme worried. It’s probably about one of his horses, and he needs me. It wouldn’tbe the first time he’s asking for my help.

Sniper follows me outside.

The ride to the barn only takes me a few minutes. Brennamight be the quietest horse, but she’s a real cannon. Thanks to all the ridinglessons I’ve had with Kellan (not all have involved a horse), I’m not afraid ofriding her. The only thing I still refuse to learn to ride is a bull, eventhough it’s a tradition among the Boyd brothers. It took me a whole week toconvince Kellan to give it up for the time being out of fear that he mightbreak his neck.

As I’m nearing the barn, I can make out the horses in themeadows, but there is no sign of Kellan.

I dismount Brenna and bind her to a post.

“Kellan?” I call out and cock my head to listen.

There’s no reply, which can only mean Kellan is either busywith a horse inside the barn and can’t hear me, or he’s writing a new song andhas his headphones on.

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