Page 22 of Sing Me Home
“Yup,” I said without missing a beat. “Way bigger.”
Charlie laughed.
“I hope you are, son. But that’s only going to happen if we record more songs. Where do you think you’re going?”
With both boots finally on, I turned. “Charlie has an entire barn to muck out.”
Dad’s head cocked to the side. “And you have an album to finish. We’ve got one more take, maybe two, on ‘Hard to Love You.’”
I widened my eyes, pleading for him not to make a big deal about this. “I know. I figure if I help her, we’ll be done in an hour and I’ll meet you at the studio. Check your texts. Randy is running late anyway.”
Dad slipped his phone out of his pocket. “Fine.” He cocked a brow at both of us. “One hour.”
I winked at Charlie. “See what I have to put up with? Such a task master.”
Dad snorted. “He says as he grabs the keys to the Beamer that I bought him.”
I grinned as I dropped the fob into my pocket. Dad gave it to me when I turned sixteen. He gave a brand new car to every Dupree on their sixteenth birthday. Said there should be some perks to having the paparazzi all up in our business 24/7.
After overhearing Ashton ask about Charlie’s car and seeing her response, I’d wanted to ask her myself. But the way she was looking at the floor, cheeks bright red, told me I wouldn’t like the answer.
Dad must’ve noticed because he walked over and gave her a squeeze. “Glad you’re home, darlin’.”
Charlie didn’t need to worry about Dad’s reaction. Whatever had happened to her ice cap-white, hybrid Toyota 4Runner, she was worth way more. Dad would crawl across the Sahara for that girl. Zero doubts.
Just like me.
* * *
Ahalf hour later, cheeks flushed and streaked with dirt, I’d never seen anyone more beautiful.
She glanced up mid-shovel when she felt me watching. “Why did you sleep on my floor?”
My eyes darted to the manure fork in my hand.
She huffed. “And why are you helping me when you should be working on your songs? And why do you insist on being in the same stall as me? This would go a lot quicker if we weren’t tripping over each other.”
I sifted a pile of dung out of the shavings and tossed it into the wheelbarrow. “You know why,” I mumbled.
“Cash.” She sighed. “If I promise I won’t leave, will you let me out of your sight?”
My gaze flashed up to hers. “What kind of promise? ’Cause if we’re talking a pinkie promise, I’m out.”
She shook her head like I was being ridiculous. “Do you want me to spit on my palm and shake?”
The corners of my mouth twitched. “No. Something more serious. A blood oath.” I pulled out my pocket knife.
She laughed. “Uh, no. Defini?—”
Bang!
Her words died with a shriek when the wind gusted outside and a piece of loose tin slapped against the roof. She fell back a step. Her watering eyes doubled in size, dancing around like someone was after her.
“Hey, are you okay?” She swallowed and nodded. But her chest was rising and falling too quickly. I squeezed her hand. “It’s just the roof. Gramps keeps saying he needs to get up there and Granny won’t let him because ‘you’re too old. You’ll break a hip,’” I imitated in Granny’s bossy voice, making her sound like a ninety-year-old. “‘Holden can do it. Or better yet, one of the grandsons. If they fall off, they’ll bounce right back onto their feet. I swear their bones are made of rubber.’”
It worked. A little. Charlie's shoulders dropped and she laughed. But that chest was still heaving in and out. Her gaze flitted over my shoulder.
“Granny would beat your butt if she heard that terrible impression,” Uncle Holden said behind me.
