And then Beau looks at me.
“I wrote ‘Beyond the Chords’ thinking I was trying to process a feeling. Turns out, I was writing about the woman I’d fall madly in love with. I just didn’t know it yet.”
He slips the guitar off his shoulder and hands it to one of his awe-struck music students as if he’s done it a thousand times. Then Beau lowers himself with calm intention over the edge of the stage and strides the last few steps between us.
He’s not performing. He’s not proving anything.
He’s merely a man, telling the truth.
He leans in, his lips close to my ear with a rich, low timbre. The slightest tremble tucks itself under each word. The warmth of his whisper grazes the side of my neck. It’s not flirtatious or possessive. It’s purposeful, threading between us, silk drawn through fingers with the reverence of a vow. His question transfers care of himself to me, trusting me to be and do what he needs.
I hear, “Was any of this real for you?”
But I know that what he really means is, “What will you do with the heart I just handed you?”
Chapter 16
The Kiss That Counts
Beau
Idon’t know if she hears the real question beneath my words, but when I feel the quiver in her breath, I think she just might. The seconds hold my future. I feel suspended in the same charged stillness that follows lightning, right before the sky decides whether to break open or keep everything coiled behind the clouds.
I prepare for a laugh. A deflection. The way she masks discomfort with a flicker of humor. But she doesn’t react in any of those ways. She holds herself in the present as still as a deer that’s caught a trace of something unexpected in the air. She’s not frozen out of fear. Her absolute stillness is because what she’s processing deserves her full attention.
Everything else recedes. All the cheering, the stage lights, the clapping of locals and overzealous couples around us dulls. There’s only Maisie. Eyes a verdant fern green, brighter than any jewel, look up at me. Her lips part as if she’s not sure the words will come, but then I hear them.
“It was all real,” she says. “Every minute. Every word. Every look.”
Her voice has that same wavering catch I’ve heard only once, when she was talking about the wedding that never happened, trying to pretend she didn’t continue to walk with the scars of its impact.
But now, there’s no pretending. This is Maisie stripped of every camera-ready smile, every flirty dodge, every quip meant to protect her heart.
My foot shifts back, instinctively. I’m not retreating, but giving my body the space it needs to take in what my heart has longed for my whole life. Hearing it out loud does something to me, reminding me of standing too close to an amp when the volume kicks in. I’m overwhelmed by the sincerity of Maisie’s words and the gravity of them. They change everything.
This is the woman I love, not bolting when I trust her with what matters, not twisting what I offered into something for her benefit. She stays firmly planted with me and for me. She does not run.
Thought short-circuits and reflexes take over. There’s not really distance to close, only a tiny step, but I need the motion. I need to feel the leap from hope to certainty. So I adjust my stance slightly to fill in the backward step of awe I took earlier.
And I kiss her.
This isn’t for the crowd or the contest. I kiss her because I want to. Because I need to. Because everything inside me feels as though it’s been rushing toward this moment for years, like the chords of a song finally resolving. My hands hold her face tenderly on each side, cradling the uncontainable joy that is Maisie.
She kisses me back fiercely. Her handsslide up my chest and my arms wrap around her, grounding her as much as she’s grounding me. Her scent rises between us. So familiar now. Comforting. Dizzying.
Our kiss starts everything and ends it, too. Days of pretending collapse into a truth neither of us has words for. It’s just us, belonging to each other. Her lips soften as my hand slips into her hair, the other gently tugging on her waist to bring her nearer, and she leans in, choosing me. It all surges together, the reverberation of everything genuine finally set free.
It isn’t until she pulls back a tiny bit, blinking her eyelashes at me, that the rest of the world barrels in.
Parker and Trina are spinning each other in a dramatic dip off to the side of the stage. Skye does a little heel kick, squealing something about “true love’s big moment.” The Over-actors are clapping as if they’ve just witnessed a fairytale proposal, and Peaches sits regally beside the punch table, a flower tucked behind one ear, tail thumping as if she’s known all along how this ends.
Cameras flash and behind me, Reenie yells, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” and Pen shouts, “High-five, Marty. I told you they’d cave!”
Maisie moves her lips just enough to laugh, a dazed sound edged with wonder that melts into a smile. Her hands are still on my chest, and mine haven’t moved from her waist.
“Guess we gave them a show,” she says, voice low and breathless, her words catching slightly on the thrill of it all.
“Not a show,” I murmur.
