Holding Hope (Opal Springs #1)

Clarke

I learned early that there are very few things in life worth holding onto—and even fewer you can actually keep. My shelves back home are lined with trophies and music awards, but none of them matter. Not when the one thing I wanted most was never mine to hold in the first place.

I could hold my breath through the bad days, whisper encouragement into her hair, wrap my arms around her and pretend I could keep her here just a little longer.

But breath always runs out. And when I finally exhaled, she slipped from me.

I couldn’t hold her forever. I couldn’t hold anything forever.

Grief never knocks. It just shows up—an uninvited guest who refuses to leave even after the drinks go cold and the fire dies.

It settles into the corners of every room, a quiet weight you learn to live beside.

Some days you feel brave enough to crack a window, let in a little air.

Other days, the breeze turns into a storm and you’re right back where you started, sitting across from your pain like it’s an old friend.

I hated it. I needed it. Because if I still mourned her, I still remembered her. Her laugh. The lines in her palms. The way she held my hand like she was memorizing it.

Was it her presence I felt—or the ache of her absence? I didn’t let myself look too closely. Whatever it was, I clung to it. It was all I had left.

“Miss King?”

My name over the microphone snapped me back. I straightened, smoothing my expression into something sweet and harmless.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Coffer,” I said, laying on the Texas charm that had earned me the nickname Texas Sweetheart. “Lost my train of thought.”

The crowd laughed and clapped. They adored the ditzy small-town girl with the big voice and the bigger smile.

And I let them. Better they think I was clueless than know the truth.

By the time the Mayfair Music Convention wrapped, night had settled over the city like a heavy velvet curtain.

I did not mind Mayfair, but God, I missed home.

Opal Springs had sky instead of smog, stars instead of streetlights.

You could hear the crickets, the wind, the quiet. You could breathe.

I was counting down the minutes until I could sink my bare feet into the grass of my childhood yard.

One thousand and eighty minutes. Eighteen hours.

After confirming with my assistant that I’d be ready for the airport at eight, I showered, pulled on my softest pajamas, and wrapped my damp hair in a towel.

I settled on the bed with my laptop and notebook, humming along to a new track my producer had sent.

Ready up, Kid, keep your head to the sun…

A knock interrupted me. I glanced at the clock. 11:46 p.m. Too late for anyone who had good intentions.

“Who is it?” I called, not moving from my comfortable sprawl.

A muffled voice answered—feminine, familiar.

“I can’t hear you,” I said. “You’ll have to be louder.”

“Or you could just open the door.”

My stomach dropped. I groaned, pushed myself up, and padded to the door. I took a breath, bracing myself, and opened it just enough to see her.

“What do you want?” I asked flatly.

Avalon Kennedy stood in the hallway, storm-grey eyes bright with mischief.

Avalon Kennedy. The girl whose name haunted every magazine, every gossip site, every overheard conversation in California.

Avalon Kennedy stuns in new photo. Avalon Kennedy punches paparazzi. Avalon Kennedy rumored to be dating—

She was everywhere. Even when she wasn’t. Chaotic. Immature. Irresponsible. Loud. Sarcastic. Beautiful like a thunderstorm.

And now she was standing outside my hotel room at midnight.