Chapter Twenty-Five

One day more.

As Casey strode from the old dance studio that would be acting as the festival's registration area, the lyrics from Les Miz's anthem were playing on repeat in his head, because tomorrow was the day. The opening of Home Grown Tastes and Tunes, and no matter how confident Casey was that the event would be a success—vendor spots were sold out, the music roster was full, they'd had to cut off orders for Sylvia's picnics because the basket weaver said she was out of stock—he still worried that somehow Bradley would find a way to scupper the whole thing.

He hadn't heard a peep from Bradley since their confrontation at the resort, but as Casey had been promoting Home Grown, he kept running into Bradley's marketing for the antique fair, which had appeared as far away as Atlantic City.

Casey suspected that Bradley was blanketing the northeast with his publicity as a not-so-subtle dig: See what I can accomplish with my name and network? But as far as Casey was concerned, Bradley's OTT campaign just meant Casey didn't have to spend as much on his own efforts. He was perfectly willing to coast along in the wake, because more visitors to Merrilton meant more potential visitors to Home.

The resort manager had told Casey their occupancy was maxed out, as were most of the other inns and BBs in Merrilton. She and her staff were already pimping Home Grown to their guests, although she'd confided that a lot of them were here specifically for Home Grown, and had been disappointed that Home had no onsite accommodations.

We really need the inn to reopen. And maybe explore turning Harrison House into a BB or some kind of retreat rental.

Because next year, Home Grown is going to be even bigger.

Casey slowed as he crunched down Harrison House's driveway and wandered past the porch on his way to the summer kitchen.

Next year.

With all the work on the festival, he'd completely abandoned his cooking lessons weeks ago—he didn't have time to struggle through them, and Sylvia didn't have time to run interference on his kitchen disasters. He'd been run ragged—they all had—getting the festival up in such a short time, but despite the pressure, despite the almost round-the-clock projects, despite the constant demands on his time, he'd never felt so… free.

The difference. Oh, my god, the difference. Doing something he loved, something he was good at, something he wanted to do? He couldn't believe he'd spent so much time, effort, and angst on something he not only loathed and was terrible at, but that he'd only approached out of obligation.

I'm never doing that again. I don'thave to do that again. I never did.

As he gazed at the summer kitchen's door—freshly painted a deep crimson courtesy of Kenny and his crew—the relief, the joy that fountained under Casey's heart was tempered by trepidation.

Was he really considering staying here instead of returning to Manhattan?

Not falling in with Bradley's little dom act was a no-brainer, of course. But bailing on the city? On the restaurant? On Uncle Walt's dreams?

He felt like he was balanced on the ledge overlooking the quarry waters, blue and sparkling and inviting so far below. Did he scuttle back onto the safety of the rocks, or take the leap, soar into the air, and take the plunge? Trust that the chill water would be bracing rather than numbing, that he'd swim and not sink?

When he'd stormed out of Bradley's room, he'd declared that he was home already, and it certainly felt as though Home had embraced him. But had they really? Would he have a place here in town—by Dev's side—once the festival was over and summer faded into fall?

His throat tightened and his chest ached with yearning to make it so. Sure, he was staying in Dev's cottage every night now, but most of his belongings were still in his room at Harrison House. Dev hadn't technically asked him to move in. Maybe once Home was out of financial danger, he'd want his space to himself again.

Casey walked past the summer kitchen and hunkered down, resting his arms on his knees. He wasn't the only one teetering on the edge of something momentous. This festival could be the tipping point for Home, but right now it was all potential.

One more day.

Across the field stood the stage that was poised to welcome the musicians tomorrow, including Dev's old band—and how had he not known that Dev was a founding member of POV? Booths already lined Main Street, ready for the vendors' arrival. Bunting had appeared overnight, stretched across the green, announcing Home Grown Tastes and Tunes.

Casey made a mental note to thank Kenny for that touch. He'd intended to commission something like it from Artists United, but Kenny had volunteered to spearhead the decorations, including wrangling the contentious artists. He'd turned into an awesome partner for infrastructure, just as Pete had for logistics. The entire town had embraced the new event.

I fit in here. I do. I'm not extraneous like I was to my dad and even to Uncle Walt. And I'm not leaving unless they chase me out with a pitchfork.

Harrison House was too big for one person, but even if Dev didn't want Casey in the cottage, there were other vacant properties. Casey could sell his co-op in Manhattan and buy one of them. One way or another, he was staying.

And one way or another, he was holding onto the relationship he was building with Dev.

A horn blared insistently from the driveway, jolting Casey out of his reverie. He lurched to his feet.

"That had better not be Bradley," he muttered.

When he cleared the side of the house, though, instead of Bradley's Lexus, a stretch limo stood in front of the porch. The liveried driver, a decidedly sour expression on his face, was unloading luggage from the trunk while a familiar man—all tight tank, tattoos, leather pants, and sulky bad boy rocker looks—leaned into the driver's door.

Nash freaking Tambling—Dev's ex, as Casey now knew—laid on the horn again. "Where the fuck is everybody?"

A guy in a loose tie, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, blotted his forehead with a handkerchief as he trotted down the porch steps. "Take it easy, Nash. I'm sure they'll be here soon. We weren't scheduled to arrive until—"

"I don't give a shit, Joe." He glared at shirt-sleeve guy. "You're our fucking manager. So fucking manage it."

Casey pasted on a smile and hurried over to Joe. "Hello. You must be Joe Rintoul." He held out his hand. "I'm Casey Friel. We spoke on the phone."

Joe shook Casey's hand, his palm damp. "Right, right. Are our rooms ready? We're a little early."

Casey managed—just—to keep from wiping his hand on his jeans. "Not to worry. I'm sure we can get you settled soon. You'll be staying here at Harrison House."

Nash sneered at Casey. "Is all the staff as incompetent as you? Maybe the rest of the band is staying here"—he cast a dismissive glance at Harrison House—"but I'll be staying elsewhere."

"Really?" Casey glanced between Nash and Joe as three other men boiled out of the rear of the limo. "Did you decide to stay in Merrilton instead? If so, I hope you've already booked your rooms, because from what I hear, there's not a reservation to be had within twenty miles."

Nash scowled. "Of course I'm not staying in Merrilton, although it's better than this dump."

"What are you talking about, Nash?" One of the others—a bear of a white guy with shaggy blond hair who Casey recognized from the band's publicity stills as Owen Mosley, POV's drummer—bounded over and shook Casey's hand. "This is awesome. I loved this house when we stayed here with Dev. He claimed there wasn't a ghost in the attic, but I swear I heard a window banging and ghostly footsteps overhead."

So that's how Randolph Scott is getting in. Casey made another mental note, this one to close off the informal cat door as he returned Owen's firm grip.

"I've been staying here for a couple of months and haven't noticed any ghosts yet." None of Randolph Scott's victims had attempted to reach out from the other side, thank goodness. "Welcome."

"Thanks. Do I get my old room back? The old nursery? The one over the side porch?"

"That's the plan."

A tall, lanky guy with skin paler than Casey's and a lugubrious expression worthy of Eeyore wandered over and held out his hand. "Eli Stack."

Casey shook. "Bass player, right?" His fingertips certainly had the calluses for it.

Eli nodded and wandered away to stare at a lilac bush.

Owen waved a hand. "Don't mind him. He hasn't cracked a smile since 2011 when Esperanza Spalding beat out Justin Bieber for the Best New Artist Grammy."

Casey glanced at the third guy, a slender Asian man with the face of a warrior monk who was standing diffidently to one side, glancing furtively at Nash, who was still scowling at the house. Casey couldn't place him, since he hadn't been in any of the publicity stills. Nash was the front man, the vocalist since Dev wasn't in the band anymore. Maybe this guy was the guitarist who'd taken Dev's place?

Owen beckoned him over. "This is—"

"Harry!" Nash said, glancing over his shoulder at the man before he had a chance to join Owen and Casey. "Did you bring my headphones?"

Sunlight glinted off Harry's wire-framed glasses when he flinched at Nash's abrupt tone. Irritation flickered across his narrow face. "No, Nash. Because it's not my job to pack for you."

"Great." Nash scowled and crossed his arms. "What am I supposed to do without my headphones?"

"No worries, Nash," Joe said. "I'll pick some up for you in town."

"I like my headphones. They probably don't have the right brand anywhere closer than Boston."

Joe made some kind of response, but Casey tuned out the conversation and turned to smile at Harry.

"Welcome to Home, Harry. I'm Casey."

Harry grinned crookedly, a smile that transformed his high-cheekboned face from ascetic to an almost glowing beauty. "It's Haru, actually. Haru Inada. Guitarist and backup vocals."

Owen slung an arm across Haru's shoulders. "Don't be so modest, H." He leaned toward Casey and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "He's a kickass songwriter. Got a dozen tunes lined up for our next album."

Haru glanced sidelong at Nash, whose snit had taken a breather while Joe was engaged in a low-voiced phone conversation. "That's not—"

"We're releasing a retrospective next." Nash broke off a hydrangea bloom and began stripping it of its delicate lavender petals. "Tried and true hits from our first tours."

Haru pressed his lips together in a taut line and Owen raised his eyebrows.

"Tried and true, Nash?" Owen said with a laugh. "Tried at all those dive bars we used to play in back in the day. They're terrific tunes, but we don't have the rights. Not to record them."

The expression on Nash's face might technically be a smile, but it made Casey's back creep as though ghostly mice were staging a rally on his skin.

"Trust me," he drawled, tossing the half-denuded hydrangea onto the ground. "We'll have the rights locked by this time on Sunday. Fuck, maybe within the hour, if this idiot will move his ass and carry our bags upstairs and announce our arrival."

Casey blinked. Did Nash always speak to limo drivers that way? He couldn't expect Joe to schlep his luggage around, could he? That surely wasn't in a manager's job description.

Nash shifted his glare from Owen to Casey. "Well?"

Oh. I get it.I'm the idiot in question.

He swallowed a retort and pasted on a smile. After all, he'd grown up in an atmosphere of starfuckery. The context had been food, not performing arts, but the reasoning was the same: Kowtow to the talent, because they're the moneymakers.

With a sigh, Casey bent down and grabbed the handle of the nearest guitar case.

"Not that, you asshole." Nash strode over and yanked the case out of Casey's hand. "Never touch an artist's instrument without permission."

"Dude," Owen said. "You just told him to carry your shit upstairs, which is pretty outrageous, even for you. Besides, you haven't touched a guitar in months." He frowned. "In fact, do you even have a guitar?"

"Shut the fuck up, Owen. Of course I have a guitar."

"Ooohhh." Owen's expression cleared. "I get it. That's not your guitar. That's—"

"Hey, babe?" Dev's voice carried from around the corner. "I hope you don't think I overstepped, but I—" Dev rounded the lilac bush and practically ran Eli down. "Whoa!" His eyes widened. "Eli?"

"—Dev's guitar," Owen finished.

Nash shoved the guitar against Casey's chest and let go so Casey had to fumble to catch it before it fell onto the gravel.

Then Nash sauntered toward Dev with an expression like Randolph Scott's when he'd scored one of Sylvia's crab cakes.

"No need to apologize, babe." Nash wrapped his arms around Dev's neck. "Now that we're together again, I'm sure we can work everything out."