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)
“I surprised you first,” I whispered. He’d been coming to me. My heart rate kicked up to a full gallop.
“I noticed.” He took a step, then paused. “Does that mean you made a decision? Or are we still at I’ll let you know?” Fear flashed through his eyes.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Zoe,” he practically growled.
“You wrote a song for me.” I fidgeted with the backstage pass that hung around my neck.
“I’ve written about ten songs for you, only two of which you’ve heard. I’m kind of in love with you, if you hadn’t noticed.” His jaw flexed. “Now, would you please put me out of my misery?”
He was still in love with me. Suddenly, breathing was a million times easier.
“Of course I want you, Nixon. I love you.” Like there had ever been another option. Wanting him was a given, like the sun rising in the east or the Colorado River flowing to the Pacific. It just was.
“Thank God,” he muttered, already closing the distance between us.
He didn’t stop once he reached me. He only paused long enough to pick me up before pressing my back against the wall and kissing me senseless.
I clutched his neck, holding him to me as he kissed me over and over, our tongues picking up where we’d left off months ago without skipping a beat.
Yes. I locked my ankles around the small of his back and kissed him like my life depended on it because it did. This man was my life. I loved my career, loved the industry and the rush of the music, but the last three months had taught me that none of it mattered without this—without him.
“I’m all sweaty,” he said against my lips.
“I like it.” I grinned.
His smile matched mine for one elated heartbeat before his mouth was busy at my neck. I whimpered as my body liquified, turning molten as he palmed my breast.
There was a knock at the door.
“Nix, Jonas wants to add ‘Merciful Fire’ to the Atlanta set list,” Ethan called through the door.
“Go away,” Nixon snapped, then brought his mouth back to mine in an even deeper kiss.
I rocked against him, using the wall as leverage. Now. Now. Now. The demand built to a fever pitch, the result of too many months without him.
Another knock sounded.
“Nixon, the car is here,” Monica called out.
“Okay,” he answered, sliding a hand under my dress to cup my ass. “Damn, I’ve missed everything about you, but this makes the top ten.” His voice dipped to that sandpaper-rough tone that sent my temperature skyrocketing.
“So, do you want me to tell the driver you’re on the way?” Monica asked.
Nixon sagged, resting his forehead against mine.
“How private is that plane?” I asked.
“Very,” he answered, a wicked gleam dancing through his eyes. “Want to get out of here?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t even pause to pack his guitars.
EPILOGUE
FIVE YEARS LATER
NIXON
There was something to be said for being snowed in over spring break, but it took on a whole other level when there were seven energetic kids under your roof and only six adults.
One of those kids skid by, sliding in his socks across the hardwood of our Colorado home.
“Whoa!” I reached out from the kitchen and caught Jonas’s oldest son about a second before he met the wall. “You can’t go sledding with a broken head, my man.”
“Okay, Uncle Nixon!” Like a wind-up toy, he scurried off toward the mudroom as soon as I released him.
“Vivi, get your mittens!” Kira shouted over her shoulder as she followed after her son. “Thanks, Nix. He’s a little reckless.”
“He’s a menace,” Jonas corrected her, already in his snow pants.
“Takes after his dad,” I said with a grin, grabbing my hat off the counter.
We had so many people in this house that the crowd spilled out of the mudroom and into the hallway beyond. The noise was easily as loud as our last concert, which had been in August.
Cutting down the tours to summers had worked out just the way we’d hoped—giving us all time to spend with our families, time to enjoy what we’d worked so hard to build.
“Uncle Nixon, I can’t find my gloves!” Colin yelled over his little sister’s head as Quinn bundled the four-year-old up like she was about to face off with a Yeti.
“There’s a bin full of extras on that second shelf.” I pointed to the one on his left.
“Thank you,” Graham said as he passed by, clapping me on the back with his empty hand, their youngest slung under his arm like a football.
“Learned my lesson last year. There’s about a dozen sets of everything.” I still wasn’t sure what it was about hats and gloves that made it impossible for kids to keep track of their stuff, but I wasn’t reliving the meltdown of I can’t sled without my hat ever again.
And that had been Jonas.