Page 2 of Sweet Obsession
“Why should he come home?” Preston reached for his hat. “He flies his family anywhere they want to see him on tour. From what I hear, his grandmother used to follow him around the country like a groupie.”
That made Jillian chuckle. Sara Kirby was as feisty as they come. The old woman would probably outlive them all and still be dancing after everyone was gone.
Carson heaved a sigh. “Can’t blame him. It’s certainly easier than dealing with grapevine queen Iris Hathaway.”
Her brothers were right. This town held very little for Blake Kirby. Only half-listening to the ongoing conversation, the music pulled Jillian back to a memory from years ago. She was a little girl again, sitting off to the side on the back porch. Kade and his friends, Blake among them, playing a game of touch football on the sprawling back lawn. An idea had struck Blake, mid-play. He’d grabbed his battered guitar from the back of hispickup, settled onto the porch steps, and oblivious to the shouts and laughter around him, began to coax a new tune from the strings. Jillian had sat, mesmerized, as scattered notes bloomed into that unforgettable, haunting melody now playing from Carson’s phone. When he’d finally looked up, his fingers stilling on the frets, and seen her sitting there, listening so intently, he’d smiled. She’d never forgotten that smile, the raw beauty of the tune, or the boy who’d become a rock star.
The song ended, and the usual country twang returned, snapping Jillian back to the present, the ranch, their dilemma, and the sound of a ticking clock in her head reminding her that her time to find a partner in crime was running out.
A galaxy of phone screens held aloft, the audience swayed dutifully as Blake Kirby played the last, fading note of the encore, “Honeysuckle Memories.” With bittersweet lyrics about dusty roads and firefly nights, no one in this sprawling arena would likely understand the true origins. The applause washed over him, a familiar wave, warm and thunderous. The final show of this tour, tonight the crowd had been electric—singing every word back to him.
He offered a practiced bow, called out a “Thank you, goodnight!” into the mic that would be broadcast onto the massive screens, and strode off stage right. The roar of the crowd, the chants of “Kirby! Kirby!” were already beginning to recede as he navigated the labyrinth of backstage corridors, the sudden shift to organized chaos a well-rehearsed dance.
This was it. The West Coast was the end of the line for the USA “Wildfire” tour. Twelve months, numerous cities, and too many hotel rooms to count. He could already hear the pop of champagne corks from the band’s dressing room down the hall;half of them were probably already making plans to celebrate with the usual entourage of hopefuls, industry hangers-on, and women whose names they wouldn’t remember by morning.
He bypassed it all with a curt nod to Phil, his perpetually harried tour manager, who was already barking into two phones at once, and a brief wave to Milo. Compact and surprisingly unassuming for a man who could probably disable three assailants before they hit the floor, his bodyguard fell into step a few paces behind, a silent, ever-present shadow.
The transition from stage god, commanding the attention of tens of thousands, to solitary man in a sterile black SUV was always jarring, the familiar post-show restlessness settling in. In the presidential suite of the five-star hotel, the silence shrouded him like a heavy blanket, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic twenty floors below. Ignoring the artfully arranged platter of gourmet snacks and the chilled champagne waiting on the coffee table, he walked to the panoramic window. The city lights spread out below him like a carpet of fallen stars, beautiful but impersonal. He’d seen a thousand cities like it. After a while they all blurred into one.
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. Sleep was a distant rumor. The adrenaline that had carried him through two and a half hours of performance was still a live current under his skin, thrumming with restless energy. He picked up his oldest, most battered acoustic—the one that had seen him through countless late nights in dingy college bars and even earlier, quieter nights on his grandmother’s porch back in Honeysuckle. Its scarred wood felt more familiar, more real, than any of the high-end, custom-made instruments that now populated his collection.
His fingers found the strings, not with the practiced precision of his stage show, but with a hesitant, searching touch. A new riff, something softer than his recent chart topping hits, beganto form under his restless touch. It was a wisp of a melody, something that had come to him unbidden, the way tunes used to arrive before writing music became a job, a product to be packaged and sold. This felt different, purer. He played it again, the notes hanging in the quiet air, more honest than anything he’d put on the last album.
Blake lost track of time as he worked through the progression, adding flourishes, finding the heart of the song that wanted to emerge. This was what he’d fallen in love with—not the screaming crowds or sold-out stadiums, but these quiet moments when music created itself through his hands.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through the melody, jarring him back to the present. Two in the morning. Who on earth…? He glanced at the caller ID, a frown creasing his brow. His grandmother. Sara Kirby. A wave of affection, quickly followed by a prickle of unease, washed over him. Grams never called this late. Or for some, this early.
He swiped to answer, the new melody dissolving. “Grams?”
“Blake, darling!” Her voice, usually a warm, Texas drawl, sounded unusually bright, almost unnervingly chipper for what was nearly four in the morning Texas time.
“Is something wrong?”
“Of course not. I bet you thought I forgot, didn’t you?”
“Forgot?”
“Your birthday.”
Setting the guitar against the wall, Blake leaned back into the stiff hotel chair. “Birthday?” Maybe she was sleep calling; because he and she both knew his birthday was months away.
“A grandmother never forgets her favorite grandson’s special day.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Grams, I’m youronlygrandson.”
“Pfft. That’s semantics. You’re still my favorite.”
Despite his mounting confusion over this odd hour phone call, Blake found himself smiling. “You got me there, but why are you up at four in the morning?”
“Morning? It’s the middle of the afternoon.” Her tone shifted to one of admonishing adult. “I just had a cup of tea and wanted to call you before you thought I’d forgotten your special day.”
They talked for a little longer, Grams chatting about neighbors and weather and asking about friends from high school he hadn’t seen in close to a decade. When she finally said goodbye, claiming she needed to start dinner, he was left staring at his phone. What the heck was going on?
Chapter Two
The lunchtime lull had settled over Heaven Scent, leaving Jillian with a rare quiet moment. Her mind still churning over the morning’s conversation with her brothers, the familiar weight of the ranch’s precarious finances, a burden she shared with all her siblings, pressed down even amidst the fragrant chaos of her candle shop. She needed to move, get some fresh air. A walk, a chance to clear her head before tackling the displays for her latest batch of Honeysuckle candles.
“Carol,” Jillian grabbed a protein bar from the desk drawer and waved at her part-time employee, “I’m going to have lunch al fresco today.”
