Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Someone knows her Amelia Stone.” The stage manager sounds impressed. I think I’m glowing.
Dev and Ledger weren’t kidding when they said they like to spoil a woman. From the penthouse suite to the concert tickets to the private jet, these guys are serious about their indulgence.
It’s almost too much. I’ve felt a little guilty from the beginning, letting them lavish me with experiences and luxuries and knowing I couldn’t return it in kind. Then I understood—really understood—that repayment is not what they want from me. Now my guilt has a different flavor. Are they imagining what it’d be like to do things like this in San Francisco?
The look in Dev’s eyes when we arrived at the rink earlier today was magic. I wish I could be the one to put that look in his eyes again and again, to plot little surprises for him with Ledger and vice versa. I want to make them happy.
But I can’t bear the thought of failing at that. I can’t stand the idea that I might hurt them.
My heart is full and heavy at the same time.
As we tour backstage, I remind myself to savor every second of the peek behind the scenes, the pre-show sound check, and most of all, the photo op with the pop star.
When Amelia strides into the wings after the sound check, bubbles flow through my veins. She smiles as she heads our way, but one of the wind machines comes on unexpectedly, blasting her bright red hair in all directions.
The stagehand rushes to turn it off, apologizing, “My bad, my bad.” But the damage is done. The hair has blown loose from the vintage silver barrette holding the pop star’s hair to one side. With a laugh, she tries to brush the hair from her face and say hello at the same time. “Hi. I’m Amelia Stone and I’m having a bad hair moment.” She seems to have no problem poking fun at herself.
“Oh, you can just do this,” I say, demonstrating how to tuck the strands back in a quick fix.
The star grimaces, trying to untangle the clip, then says to me, “Can you do it?”
I’m sure she has a hair person. In fact, I see a man with a makeup bag scurrying across the stage. But when your favorite rock star asks you to fix her hair, you snap up the chance.
Quickly, I tuck the loose strands back into place. “There you go. I’m a hairstylist, actually,” I say.
She smiles warmly. “Then maybe it’s kismet you were here today.”
Perhaps it was. But not because of the hair. Because I know what to say to her after all. “What if you fail?” I blurt out.
She furrows her brow, processing the question. “Like when I get onstage?”
“Yes. Exactly. What if you get it all wrong?”
She’s quiet for a spell. “Then, you pick yourself up and you try again the next time.”
During the concert, my girls and I dance and shout and cheer in the front row, singing as loud as we can to songs we know by heart.
Here like this, with the music flowing through me, I do feel like I am picking myself up.
But the next part? Trying again? I’m not so sure.
Especially when the music slows, cross-fades to something deep and soulful. It’s a number that makes me want to grind against one guy, then another. That has me picturing nights at music clubs in San Francisco, dancing with my men, one behind me, one in front, arms all over me, and around me.
I want it so badly my chest aches.
But that’s not part of this deal. I know, too, that photos could be easily posted. By anyone.
As my friends dance with their partners, I dance alone. I steal a glance at Dev on one side of me. Arms are crossed, he looks at the stage, but every few seconds, his gaze cheats to me.
Ledger is on my other side. His hands are in his jeans pockets. His expression is stoic, but every now and then he checks me out.
Like he did at the calendar event in the park?
Maybe.
What if we’d all been available that day—not just single, but truly free?
What if we hadn’t been hurt? Hadn’t made bad choices in the past? Hadn’t hemmed ourselves in to others’ expectations?
What if we’d gone to a concert that night and I’d danced for them like this?
Arms in the air. Hair trailing down my back. Hips swaying.
Dev and Ledger have eyes only for me, like it’s impossible for them to look anywhere else.
Like they have to fight off the devil himself not to touch me.
Dev looks like he wants to pounce on me, Ledger like he wants to throw me over his shoulder and haul me away.
In the middle of thousands upon thousands of people, I dance, letting the music turn the three of us on. It’s some of the best foreplay I’ve ever had, and we’re not even touching.