Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Another round of cheers rose from my little town. As backward as his reasoning was for being here, that was the truth. There was a bona fide rock star on my little town’s stage because I’d worked my ass off to get and stay where I was.
He grinned, and, God help me, my heart jolted.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
“So tonight, this one is for you, Zoe.” He winked, then finger-picked the opening chord to “Courage of Fools,” a widely overlooked song off their first album.
They hadn’t released it as a single. Hadn’t made a video or promoted it. In fact, it had barely made the album, according to the people who had been there, but it was my favorite.
And Nixon had written it.
Usually, it was sung a key lower, in Jonas’s register, but tonight, Nixon played it just as he’d written it—for his voice.
My lips parted as he started to sing. I was familiar enough with his voice to pick it out of a crowd—he always sang backup for Jonas, and even took lead on a song or two, but never this one. Never this way.
He’d slowed the usually upbeat melody, turning it into a poignant ballad about falling in love with someone you knew you’d never keep but couldn’t help but fight for anyway.
It was the ultimate song for the dreamers, and I was probably the only person in the audience who knew it hadn’t been written for a woman but for the music industry.
For what he’d hoped it would be when they signed their first contract.
And as he sang the last line, I felt it in every beat of my heart.
He picked out the last notes, and the crowd roared in applause—if a crowd this small was capable of roaring.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Peter clapping, and it hit me. I’d been waiting to feel accomplished—to feel like I made it so I could prove him wrong—but I already had.
“I graduated top of my class,” I said, getting his attention.
“What?” He gave me that same dismissive look he always had, but this time I didn’t try to make myself more interesting to keep his attention, like I had all through high school.
“I graduated top of my class, which earned me an interview at Berkshire Management. My boss took me on with one caveat—that I follow through on my plans for law school on my own time, and I did. I specialize in entertainment law and passed the bar two months ago, not just in Washington but in California too.”
Peter blinked, his brow furrowing.
“I love my life, and I have nothing to prove to you.” I turned my attention to Nixon and met him as he came off stage, slipping the guitar strap over his head. “Amazing,” I told him.
“A little bird told me you liked that song.” The smile he gave me turned my insides to a puddle of mush.
“That was great!” Peter said, stepping forward to take his guitar.
“Tuned her up for you. Thanks for letting me borrow her.” He handed the guitar over.
“That E is stubborn,” Peter grumbled.
“Not when you warm her up right.” Nixon lifted a brow.
Peter paled.
“And we’re leaving!” I announced, taking Nixon’s hand and pulling him away.
“Not yet,” he protested with a glimmer in his eyes. “I bought cakes.”
I rolled my eyes. “You bid on cakes. It’s impossible to buy them outright.”
“You’ll see.” He swiped his tongue over his lower lip, and I fought the urge to taste it myself. That kiss hadn’t been the real thing. It had been a calculated maneuver on his part to save me from myself.
An hour and a half later, bundled up against the cold, my mother’s hand flew to her mouth as the highest cake bid was announced.
Nixon had bid ten thousand dollars for Mom’s cake.
My face slackened as I stared at him, feeling another crack in my defenses cleave into a canyon.
“Suck it, Mrs. Whitcomb,” he muttered with a smirk, right before my mother hugged him, then lectured him, then hugged him again.
I knew this side of Nixon wouldn’t stay at the surface for long, that it was only visible because he was fresh out of rehab. Because he was sober. Because there weren’t paparazzi and models and half-naked groupies in his dressing room. I knew it was temporary, but instead of scaring me, it only made me feel like this glimpse of what he could be was private…precious.
And God help me, I wanted it to be permanent.
I wanted him to be real.
7
NIXON
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered, striking through the last two chord progressions I’d written and ripping the page from the notebook. There was nothing remarkable about them, which meant they landed in the heap of similarly crumpled papers in the trash can at my feet.
I set the pencil down on the table, then strummed an A minor seven, bringing it to an E as I looked out the massive window that showcased the landscape of the Rockies. I couldn’t imagine a more picturesque setting to write a song. The skies were bluer than anywhere I’d ever been, and the mountains were painted in gold with autumn aspen leaves. This place was enough to inspire symphonies, and yet here I was, struggling to get out a few simple songs.