“Where is my Princess Prudence?” he asked, his eyes softening.
“At my dad’s place in Tribeca.”
His hands stilled on my waist. “You didn’t move back into the Chelsea townhouse?”
I shook my head. “I’m selling that townhouse, and all of Richard’s places. Too many Sinclair ghosts in those walls.”
“But where will you—?”
“We, you mean,” I said. “I want somewhere that’s ours. Even if it's not in Manhattan. If you want, we could find a place in—god help me—Queens.”
His laugh rumbled, loosening my chest. “Careful, Blackstone. That almost sounded like you want to take the L train.”
“I’ll survive.” I would deal with the commute if it meant I could keep seeing the way his whole face lit up—like I’d handed him the keys to a castle instead of suggesting a commute. “Somewhere between your mom’s place and work. With space for your guitars and my shoes and … ” I kissed his smirk. “Soundproof walls, so nobody can hear us through the vents.”
“Brooklyn?” Cruz asked, pressing me back into the kitchen island.
“Brooklyn,” I agreed, mentally plotting the best neighborhoods.
But those thoughts dissipated as is hand ran along the slit of my dress. “What about tour schedules?”
I nipped his lower lip. “I’ll fly out for shows when I can. Front row, glaring at your groupies.”
He groaned, pressing his hips into mine. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
My laugh dissolved into a gasp as his hands found their way home. Later, we’d argue about neighborhoods and square footage. Later, I’d tear his record contract to shreds. But now, with his heartbeat thundering against mine, I finally understood.
For my entire life, I’d thought of homes as real estate, to be bought and sold at a profit margin. But being back with him, I understood that home wasn’t about a zip code or MLS listing.
Home was this: The man who hadn’t given up on me. Love that didn’t need clauses to enforce it. And the future we’d build somewhere between our worlds.
"Songbird," Fleetwood Mac
Cruz
“Thistieischokingme,” I said as she straightened my collar. “Cobras are venomous, not constrictors. I’m supposed to die from your wicked mouth.”
“You’ll look so beautiful in your casket,” Tori said, tapping me on the cheek. “I wear heels all day, you don’t hear me complaining.”
“Yeah, but they make your legs look incredible.”
“No pain, no gain,” she said. “Isn’t that your line?”
“I’ve literally never said that,” I defended as we walked into the bar. “Ache? Soreness? Sure. But if it’s painful, you’re doing it wrong.”
Donnelly's, usually packed with patrons for dinner and drinks, felt cozy and intimate since Alex and Grace had rented out the whole venue for their engagement party. Tori tugged me across the room to Nick Clarke, who pulled her into a long bear hug, and insecurity tightened in my chest. How could I compare with this hot celebrity she’d known forever?
She tugged a strand of his famous golden hair. "This long hair style is worse in person."
"Your face is worse in person," he said, mussing her hair until she smacked his hand away. And my tension melted, finally believing her assurance that he felt like a brother.
Then Nick reached out for a firm handshake. "I hear congratulations on are in order for your record contract. How'd that go?"
His mischievous smirk implied he didn't care about the contract terms, he wanted a story—ideally one that would embarrass Tori, because he understood that she was secretly shy beneath that public veneer. And I was more than happy to oblige.
"You should have seen the panicked faces when she arrived as my legal counsel, all scurrying to move the meeting from a tiny office into the bougie conference room. The receptionist was whispering and typing maniacally to let the VPs know who was sitting in their lobby," I said, miming their panic as Tori's fluster delighted Nick. "Meanwhile, she's checking her watch impatiently—"
"Let me guess, she gave them that imperious look," Nick said, and then he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes in a flawless impression. Damn, no kidding he earned those Emmys.
