Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98823 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
He grimaced, but his hand relaxed enough for me to grab his fingers. “I hate asking you to do that, but…”
“I get it.” I squeezed his hand. And I did. Deciding to not reveal the song was the only real choice unless I wanted to mar our last few days together with arguing. And I knew how much his privacy meant to him. So yeah, I understood, but I didn’t like it, and I couldn’t help but drift back to my earlier vision of us all cozy and domestic in a future that couldn’t be. A few days more wasn’t enough. It was like getting a couple of notes when I wanted the whole damn symphony with him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Duncan
“Who wants another song?” Ezra crowed to the rowdy Pittsburgh crowd. Backstage, my back tensed. My muscles only marginally loosened when he launched into a classic We Wear Crowns tune. Not the new song. Good.
The past few days, Ezra’s new song had taken up residence in my brain. The lyrics had moved in, unpacked their melody, and gotten comfortable until the refrain echoed every time I had a quiet moment.
Not that there were a ton of those. We’d returned from visiting his parents to be immediately thrust back into the thick of touring and work for both of us. I had reports to review, venue personnel to meet, premises to inspect, procedures to coordinate, and incidents to investigate. But whenever my gaze landed on Ezra or my eyes drifted closed, I was back in his parents’ living room with the beige decor and bland paintings and the voice of an angel washing over me.
On stage, he was crooning about a crush on a friend, but my brain was still locked on the memory of that other song. The one about me, about my stories, about my team and the people I tried never to forget. I’d never felt so many things all at once. Even calling the song a gift seemed to trivialize it. It was a wonder. A miracle, really, how Ezra had listened to my stories and reached deep inside my soul and pulled out the most personal song I’d ever heard.
And I hadn’t been blowing false praise—it was unquestionably his best work. When it released, it would cement his already legendary songwriter status. Grammys. Platinum status. The tune was worthy of all it, and Ezra deserved every accolade. And I couldn’t hold him off forever. I grit my teeth around the bitter truth. It wouldn’t be fair to ask him to hide the best thing he’d ever written simply so people wouldn’t guess about us.
The crowd roared, reacting to a particularly inspired guitar solo. The encore was going on and on, giving me too much time to think. Ezra waiting to release the new song was probably the best I could hope for, and maybe a few years from now, no one would connect the dots. He’d have new security, and he could share the song on some new album, head out on a new tour with the not-me security person. And there, my brain shorted out, the idea of Ezra being that far removed from me. Years. Hell, I didn’t want him ten feet from me.
But my logical brain said it would be for the best if everyone, especially him, had forgotten about me when the song released. I should want to be erased from his history, not even a footnote in what was sure to be many reviews praising the song. That’s what I should hope for—that he’d hold the song until he’d forgotten about me.
But I wouldn’t, couldn’t forget about him. Not ever. I’d hear that song, and I’d know.
And my heart would fucking crack in two with every damn note. Because my head might know the tour was drawing to a close and we both had to move on, but my heart said otherwise. No way could he have written that song if he didn’t feel something real and deep and true for me. I heard it in his voice, saw it in his eyes, felt it in his touch and kiss.
My heart knew the truth, and the truth hurt. The encore finally finished, and my job was to escort Ezra to his dressing room, but the joy surging through me when he smiled at me as he came off the stage was anything but professional.
“How’d I sound?” he asked when we were alone in the dressing room. Face sweaty, he collapsed in a folding chair as I closed the door. I handed him a large, cold bottle of water, then moved to stand behind him.
“Amazing.” I ruffled his damp hair.
“Good.” He released a low purr as I continued my scalp massage. “Damn, you feel so good. Why can’t tonight be a hotel night? I’m not here for a long bus ride. I want you in my bed.”