The kind that once they start vibrating again, make beautiful music.
“Ilovethe title,” I say softly.
His arms tighten around me. His lips find the back of my neck.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You're the one who gave it to me. It’s perfect. Just like you.”
I listen to the album over and over again.
Not just because I had a hand in shaping it, either. It’s Walker Rhodes at his best: sexy and raw, but smart and sensitive too.
And it’s our story. Our summer. The story of us, falling in love.
By morning, the record is everywhere.
By the end of the first week, it's platinum.
Walker takes it all with a shrug. He turns down every interview request, every promo opportunity, and all the mystery just feeds the frenzy.
By the end of the month, it’s gone double-platinum.
And we keep living our lives like a normal family. Pancakes and coffee. School runs. Weekend trail rides and dinners at Rosemont and every blissful, ordinary thing I didn’t ever dare let myself dream of.
On a random, blissful-but-ordinary Tuesday after that, while applying leather conditioner to all of our saddles, I wrinkle my nose as my phone buzzes. Normally I love the smell of leather, but today it’s making my stomach turn for some reason.
I step outside for fresh air and check my phone. It’s a notification from my bank, which always sends my pulse racing, and not in a good way.
At least this time it’s to tell me there’s a deposit, and not a low balance alert. I open up the app.
My heart drops.
I stare at the number. There has to be some mistake.
Still staring at the screen, I wander back into the barn where Walker is showing Jonah how to get a stone out his pony’s hoof with the pick.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Walker asks. He’s peering at me, instantly alert to something being off.
“There's been a mistake,” I say. “With my account.”
He wipes his hand on his jeans and comes over. “Let me take a look.”
When he glances at the screen, he says, “What’s the problem?”
“There’s an error with the balance. They must have misplaced the decimal point. Computer glitch maybe.”
“No, darlin’. Look. Direct deposit. That’s your earnings.”
“My what?”
“You’re a credited songwriter on a multi-platinum album. You co-wrote nine of the eleven tracks. That's your share.”
I stare at him. “But I was just helping for fun.”
“I told you you'd get credit for anything we wrote together.” He goes back to the pony’s hoof, easy and unhurried.
“This is…” I look at the number again, unable to wrap my head around it. “This is an enormous amount of money. And I didn’t earn it.”
He straightens up and looks at me. Whatever he sees on my face makes him hand the pony’s lead to Jonah and come over. He takes the phone from my hand and sets it on the barn rail and takes both my hands in his.
