Charlotte’s eyes widen. “You do?” she whispers back.
“I do,” I confirm. “I love your mind and your gorgeous body, but mostly I love the way I feel when I’m with you. I love how life makes sense in a way it never did before. How hard things feel easier, and good things are so much better. How growing into the man I’ve always wanted to be suddenly seems inevitable not…impossible.”
Her breath hitches. Her pupils dilate, swallowing the green as her eyes begin to shine. “It was never impossible. Youarea good man, maybe the best one I’ve ever met.” Her lips twitch again. “Certainly, the best one I’ve ever fucked.”
“What if I want to be the last one you ever fuck?” I ask, my throat tight again. “I’m willing to do the work, Strawberry. To be the kind of man who’s worthy of a class act like you.”
She cups my face in her hands, her palms cool against my heated skin. “Are you crazy?” She searches my gaze, fierce and tender all at once. “You’re already worthy. God knows I’m not perfect. I screw up and fall short and get sucked into petty bullshit all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Like fake dating you tomake my ex jealous. I mean, how did that ever seem like a good idea?”
I shrug, lips curving as I say, “I don’t know. I’m kind of a fan of a little petty now and then. I wouldn’t be buried inside you right now without it.”
“Valid.” She bites her lip, vulnerability flashing in her eyes as she adds, “But I don’t care about any of that anymore, Baylor. I just want you. And I want you to want me, even when I’m not a class act. Even when I screw up or fall down.”
I lean in, kissing her softly, reverently, pouring every ounce of my devotion into the brush of my lips against hers. When I pull back, I murmur, “It’s a deal.”
“Promise?” she asks.
“I promise,” I vow. “If you fall down, I’ll scoop you up, carry you inside, and check you for ticks.”
She huffs. “Ticks?”
“In my fantasy, you fell in the grass,” I say, kissing her cheek, then her jaw. “In the summertime, right when the grass is long and the ticks are at their fucking worst.”
“Oh no,” she murmurs, looping her arms loosely around my neck. “That sounds perilous.”
“So perilous,” I agree, continuing to trail kisses down her throat to the top of her chest. “But don’t worry. I rush you inside, gently strip off all your clothes, and check every inch of this gorgeous skin for ticks. It isn’t easy with all these adorable freckles,” I add, skimming a finger across the freckles above her breasts, where her peach nipples are already pulling tight for me. “But I keep at it, doing a very thorough job, making sure you’re safe.”
“Then, you fuck me hard?” she asks, breath stuttering out as I close my lips around her nipple, sucking gently.
“The very hardest,” I whisper against her skin. “I promise.”
And then I flip her onto her belly and prove it, fucking her from behind with all the feral love in my heart.
Tuesday morning passes in a friend bubble, Makena and Elly lingering until well after noon to make the most of their day of “playing hooky” from real life. We take advantage of the chaos as Mack pulls her truck out of the front yard to sneak out the back gate, down to where Charlotte moved her SUV late last night.
On Thursday, I drive the girls to their recording session and hang out in the waiting room, drinking coffee and reading a book, deliberately keeping my cell on silent. Three hours later, they’ve locked down not only the tracks and instrumentals, but worked up a rough mix, as well.
Bea invites me into the booth to hear it, and I cry a little. But it’s a happy cry. A proud of the amazing, talented, artistic, strong-ass women in my life cry.
The rough mix is fire. By the time the final song is ready later that night, there’s no doubt in any of our minds that it’s something special, and the producer, studio owner, and Bea’s publicist seem to agree. They insist this song is the perfect way to launch her as a solo artist, while showing the world that Beatrice is her own woman and her story belongs to her.
Plans are made for a small “soft launch” party for the track the next afternoon.
Meanwhile, Blue has continued to run into brick walls in his investigation and the AI authenticator firm said they won’t have more information for me until Monday.
But…that’s okay.
Maybe it’s Bea’s song or the phone call she has with Voodoo management Friday morning—the one she assures me went very well, and she really thinks will help end this unfair suspension sooner than later—that has me feeling Zen again. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m too high on happy love chemicals to feel any pain too deeply at the moment, but I’m not anxious anymore.
I’m just…peaceful, certain things are going to work out for the best.
And if they don’t, we’ll deal with that, too, with our friends and family behind us. Mom and Dad are on their way here from Scotland as we speak, with plans to stay with Beatrice at my place, while I’m at Charlotte’s, for as long as she needs them to be her buffer from the chaos.
All in all, we’re lucky people, and I think Beatrice is starting to feel that way, too.
She’s practically glowing as we step into The Spotted Cat on Friday afternoon, even though it’s a chilly day for New Orleans and the sky is full of gunmetal clouds. But inside the tiny dive in a quiet part of the French Quarter, a place with music soaked into the plaster and floorboards that groan with history, we’re feeling no pain.
It’s packed, but not with the usual jazz-thirsty tourists. This is a private event filled with NOLA music industry people, musician friends, and me, Charlotte, and Blue, who watches Charlotte perform with a focus we both usually reserve for the ice. But this is his zone of genius, too, and reverence is the appropriate response when you’re in the presence of a master in your craft.
