“No, Mort. I’m not. I’m with Sal,” he says tightly.
A long silence. Then, “Son, we got practice today.”
Luke grits his teeth. One thing that isn’t happening is putting his music before his wife. Never again.
“I know it, and I’ll be there. But not right now. Seth and Jace can tune up.”
Mort exhales.
Luke scans the doors of the therapy center, on alert for Sal. “You want to tell me something, Mort, or are you tryin’ to piss me off?”
“You got the Opry.”
“What?”
“I was waiting to tell you until you got here, but if you’re gonna go all George Jones on me, hell, I’ll spare you the red carpet rollout.” Mort’s tone takes on a proud edge. “The Brothers Kincaid play the Grand Ole Opry in a month.”
Luke’s jaw drops.
Holy shit. The Opry. The Brothers Kincaid played years ago. It’s the epitome of you’ve-made-it status, and they always fought like hell for another shot.
He chuckles, impressed. “How’d you fuckin’ manage that?”
“My ways can’t be named.” Mort sounds so villainesque Luke rolls his eyes. “It’s your comeback, son. All you gotta do is pick a song.”
Blood pounds loudly in Luke’s ears as he realizes this isn’t all talk. It’s real. And sooner or later, he’s gotta be action. If he wants to help out Jace, go back to the man he used to be, he has to take the stage. The Brothers Kincaid was his band. He started it.
He needs to do this. Even if he barely remembers how to play guitar anymore.
“Mort, I—”
Mort cuts him off, his tone curt, no-bullshit. “I’m here on your porch, Luke, and you know what I see? I see your brother with his fiddle and Jace with his bass, but no guitar. There’s no guitar. Find your guitar, Luke. Find it and dust it the fuck off. Because in four weeks you take the stage at the Opry. You’re singing whether you’re ready or not. So be ready. Don’t embarrass me. Better yet, don’t embarrass that gorgeous wife of yours.”
Anger wells in Luke, and he opens his mouth to tell Mort to leave Sal out of his schemes when his eyes drift to the window.
What he sees has his heart leaping halfway from his chest.
First, Sal, exiting the double doors of the clinic.
Then, Clive Jasper, the reporter from the Nashville Star, making a beeline for her.
Luke drops the phone.
Adrenaline already has him barreling out of the truck. Every single muscle in his body tenses as his boots pound across the parking lot.
Jasper, his hands tightly gripping his camera, gives Luke a smirk.
Sal perks up when she sees Luke coming, moving faster for him, oblivious to Jasper’s approach.
Luke storms forward. White-hot rage tears at him at the thought of Jasper harassing Sal, snapping her photo in her most vulnerable moment. He won’t let anyone fuck with his wife’s mind. Not while she’s still so fragile. Not while he’s around.
He steps in front of Sal, blocking her from Jasper’s line of vision. “I’d turn the fuck around if I were you. Now.”
Jasper’s ratlike face twitches. He grins, shrugging his shoulders innocently. “Just want to talk.”
Sal grips Luke’s bicep. Her voice drifts between them, wary and confused and questioning. “Luke?”
“It’s okay,” he tells her in a low voice. Doing his best to keep Sal behind him, he turns his attention to Jasper. “You have no fucking business with my wife.”