“The middle seat of the last row is always empty. It’s in my contract.” Two lines creased the area between his brows. “And if you’d gone to will call and given them your name, they would have handed you that ticket. That’s in my contract too. It’s always your seat. Every venue. Every performance. I don’t even know why I did it, except I guess I never gave up hope that you’d walk in one day.” There, I’d said it. “All these years?” His voice came out like it had been scraped over the campfire embers. “All these years.”
