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6’2”, broad-shouldered, thick black hair that was long enough to run your hands through—but short enough for the board room—and a charming smile that led you all the way up to his 20,000 leagues-blue eyes. Guitar. Voice. All of it.
He was absolutely everything all of the female—and some of the male—fans of The Six had grown to love over the last two years. Indie rock star. That last bit had him smiling humbly, and me beaming with pride.
The Six hadn’t planned on having a “front man.” As our first summer tour neared its end, however, it became clear that Bo was what the fans wanted the most. He seemed to be able to capture the essence my parents and their friends had worked for decades to create, while bringing in a new batch of fans that melted at his smile and admired the risks he took with the guitar.
“They love you just as much,” Regan whispered into my ear as I spied on Bo doing his sound check for the night’s show.
“Get out of my head already!” I hissed back playfully.
Regan muffled a laugh as he dodged the weak smack I threw his way. “I’m serious. It’s like Johnny and June, co-op style.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” I leaned my head on Regan as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
No matter how many times I’d seen it, watching Bo alone with his guitar still took my breath away. Each time I happened upon that private moment, it was the same as that May night two years ago when I first saw him play. When everything stopped in the most cliché way possible, and all I could see, hear, and feel was him.
Regan kept his voice quiet as he spoke. “You have no idea. No. You must. They go just as crazy when you join him on stage as they do when he walks out there by himself. It’s not just because he’s Hottie McGuitar. You two are blindingly in love and people are, like, watching music porn when you’re on stage together.”
“Lovely,” I mused sarcastically.
“It’s true. Not only have you kicked the shit out of your guitar skills, your vocals are above anyone I’ve heard in a long time. Including anyone in this band.” Regan moved so he was holding both of my shoulders.
I smiled as his messy hazel eyes twinkled with sincerity. “Jesus, Regan. Did you ever think we’d end up here?”
Regan dropped his hands, shaking his head as he took in the wide green space in front of the stage. “Not in a million.”
Here wasn’t just the grape-scented air of Napa. It was here. Touring together. Me, Bo, Regan, and The Six. Here was spending the last year after our first successful summer tour doing tour weekends across the Pacific Northwest and the warm and dry South West. Here was having not been back to the East Coast except for once in two whole years. Here was me as Mrs. Cavanaugh. Bo’s wife. November Cavanaugh.
By not responding to it, though, Tyler and I were thrust into this short burst of incredible silence that made both of us shift in our seats.
I cleared my throat, not wanting to dwell. “So, want to show me what you’ve got?”
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