the ice-sculpture centerpiece was so melted it was now impossible to tell what it had originally been. Eric reached out and placed his hand against it, savoring the coolness. You’d think they could just open the doors and let some December in, but apparently nobody’d thought of that.
“I’m not going to let you ruin your future over some silly girlish tantrum.”
The voice was low and furious. Eric glanced up in surprise. Lydia Ashborn was standing backed into a corner by a tall man in a very expensive suit and an even more expensive haircut. Eric recognized Marco Ashborn, Lydia’s father.
“Do you want to be a bit player all your life, just some faceless unknown musician without even a separate credit? You should have had a solo tonight, and you know it. Don’t you want to record and tour in your own right? Why are you trying to piss it all away? Is this about me? Is that what this is all about, Lydia?”
Man, does it all have to be about you? The uprush of anger was automatic, stemming from still-unhealed scars. He’d