Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Now dessert?” he asks, making me laugh against his shoulder.
“Now you want dessert?”
“I want everything. Every normal moment. Every complicated conversation. Every fear you have about this.”
We eat chocolate mousse in bed at midnight, sharing a spoon, not caring about the sheets or the mess. He tells me about life on tour—the loneliness of it, the way cities blur together, how he started dreading the road even before he met us. I tell him about the other side—being the one left behind, watching Jason’s career take off, raising Lily alone, and then meeting and falling for Gage, only to be burned by him.
“Play something,” he says, setting the empty mousse bowl on the nightstand.
“It’s late. The neighbors—”
“Something quiet. Something just for this room.”
I grab my guitar from the corner. Settling back against the headboard, naked except for the sheet pooled around my waist, I feel exposed in ways that have nothing to do with clothes. My fingers find chords I’ve been working on, a melody no one’s heard, something I’ve been writing in fragments when I can’t sleep.
It’s about fear and wanting, about learning to trust again, about the way some people walk into your life and rearrange everything without trying. I don’t sing the words—they’re still too raw, too honest—but he hears them anyway in the way the melody builds and retreats.
When I finish, he takes the guitar carefully, setting it aside before pulling me back against him.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me in despite being terrified. For giving this a chance even though I’m exactly what you promised yourself you’d avoid.”
I kiss him instead of answering, tasting chocolate and wine and the specific flavor of possibility. Outside, Nashville sleeps or parties or writes songs in rooms just like this. The venue’s probably packed, Jovie charming customers while Gus checks IDs, Jessa mixing drinks with Memphis flair, and Cade probably trying to impress her by carrying more glasses than humanly possible.
“No promises,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Just presence,” he whispers back, understanding what I need—not declarations or guarantees, but just this moment, this choice, this conscious decision to see what happens when you stop protecting yourself from what you actually want.
And for now, that’s enough. More than enough. It’s everything.
darian
. . .
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter as I’m pouring my second cup of coffee. Laura’s name lights up the screen, and I almost don’t answer. The fact that Reverend Sister’s publicist still has my number pisses me off. She has yet to apologize for the shit she did to my sister. She had the audacity to tell Zara to just get over it for the sake of the band when Z found out Van was fucking anyone who walked past him, including Laura and her assistant.
I answer anyway.
“What do you want, Laura?”
“Good morning to you too, Darian.” Her voice carries that fake sweetness that used to make my skin crawl during band meetings. “I have something that might interest you.”
“Doubt it.”
“Just hear me out. Rex Lawson, that singer-songwriter out of Nashville who just signed with Atlantic? He specifically requested you to be a co-producer on his debut album.”
The coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips. Rex Lawson isn’t just some up-and-comer. He’s already got industry buzz. Co-producing his album would be a nice change from performing. Something like this would allow me to be present in Rye and Lily’s life without having to tour.
I lean against the counter, watching through the window as Rye helps Lily practice cartwheels in the backyard. They’re both barefoot, grass stains already marking the knees of Lily’s jeans. “How does Rex Lawson even know who I am?”
Laura laughs. “Just because you’re finding yourself doesn’t mean you’re not a hot commodity, Darian. Where are you anyway?”
“Nashville,” I mutter.
“Cute. You’re in Nashville. Rex is from Nashville. Are you making music?”
I ignore her.
“I know you are, Darian. It’s in your blood. Anyway, three months with full creative control alongside him, your name prominently featured. This might be exactly what you’re looking for to get back on the scene.”
“Why are you calling me with this?”
“Because despite what you think of me, I recognize talent. And because Rex’s people reached out to me since I still have connections to everyone from Reverend Sister.” She pauses. “Look, I know things ended badly—”
“You told my sister to stay with the man who was cheating on her with you.”
“I was wrong. But this opportunity has nothing to do with Van or the past. This is about your future.”
“You’re not my agent,” I remind her. “You’re a publicist.”
“I’m doing both.”
Double dipping.
“Like I said,” she continues. “Three, maybe four months, depending on how the sessions go. The label’s already approved the budget. They want you.”
Through the window, Lily falls sideways out of her cartwheel attempt, laughing as Rye helps her up. They’re both grinning, and something in my chest tightens.