“Yes.” I swipe my card, take a deep breath, and step out into the warm California evening, firing off a quick text to Logan that I’ve arrived.
Within seconds, he comes out and walks toward me, his face lighting up with genuine joy that makes me weak in the knees. He looks devastatingly handsome in that leather jacket and ripped jeans, his hair artfully mussed, fringes brushed diagonally to cover half his forehead.
In seven long strides he reaches me and delivers a hug so intimate and warm I nearly crumble. His arms envelop mecompletely, his chin resting atop my head. He smells so good I could hold on to him forever, like a koala bear clinging to a tree.
“I’m so glad you decided to come.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
Every pair of eyes surrounding the carpet stares at us as whispers ripple through the crowd.
“Is that her?” someone says.
“The teacher.” I can’t see whose talking with cameras constantly flashing in my face.
I clutch my purse strap tighter, anchoring myself to reality.
I should explain everything to him now. “Logan, I—”
“It’s time to make our relationship known to the world,” he interrupts, grasping my hand and tugging me toward the entrance. “I want everyone to see us.”
Panic runs through my veins like a wild river as Logan pulls me past curious reporters and glamorous guests who turn to track our progress, many lifting phones to snap photos.
“Logan, wait—”
But he doesn’t hear me over the thrum of music spilling from the open doors. His hand is warm and firm around mine, guiding me into another world.
Inside, Avalon Hollywood transforms into something from a fever dream. Chandeliers drip crystal light onto a sea of beautiful people. Rich crimson drapes frame the walls. DJ Khaled spins on the raised stage, and the bass hits like a physical thing, driving vibrations through the floor and up into my bones.
Camera flashes pop around us like summer lightning, and I find myself shrinking into Logan’s side. His arm circles my waist protectively, and given where we are, I don’t mind at all. I hope he doesn’t let go.
“I need to talk to you,” I attempt again, my voice drowning in the beat drop.
“We will,” Logan promises, his lips brushing my ear. “Just let me introduce you to a few people first.”
Logan’s hand settles at my lower back, and he guides me through the crowd expertly. People press in on both sides. Lights pulse. The bass rolls through my ribs. I’m still trying to arrange my thoughts into something usable, still trying to figure out how to tell him about Victoria’s diabolical plan, when we stop and I look up.
And my brain ceases to function.
“Maisie,” Logan says, grinning like he’s been waiting for this, “I want you to meet someone. This is Morgan Wallen.”
My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. Morgan. Wallen. Standing right in front of me. The same Morgan Wallen whose song “Whiskey Glasses” helped me survive those first brutal weeks after catching Andy with Lindsey.
He extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Maisie.”
I take his hand on autopilot. His grip is firm, his smile easy, like he introduces himself to stunned strangers for a living. I can only stare, wide-eyed and mute, like a unicorn has wandered into a nightclub and everyone else is pretending that’s normal.
“She’s usually more talkative,” Logan says, laughing as he gives my waist a quick squeeze. “Big fan, I take it?”
I manage a jerky nod, my cheeks heating up.
Morgan’s mouth quirks. “You were right” he says, tapping Logan’s arm. “She is cute.”
Heat rushes up my neck and into my face so fast I almost sway. I can’t believe my ears. Logan has been talking about me to Morgan Wallen. Like I’m a person worth mentioning.
“Told you,” Logan says with unmistakable pride. “She’s a songwriter too. Writes these amazing kids’ songs for her first graders.”
“That right?” Morgan lifts an eyebrow, interest sharpening his expression. “Maybe we should collaborate sometime.”
A sound escapes me, strangled and helpless, halfway between a laugh and a hiccup. It’s the first noise I’ve made since my brain short-circuited, and it’s the worst possible one.
