* * *
SPENCER
Gabriel’s fingers fly across the guitar as he tears through the complicated song, doing things with his instrument that I didn’t know were possible. His voice is stark and gorgeous as he hits the familiar lyrics, but even with how hard he’s working to sell it, the magic just isn’t quite there.
I feel bad admitting that to myself. I don’t even like this kind of music in the first place, so who am I to say? But it doesn’t wreck me the way his solo of “Last Man Alive” did, and when he reappears in the dressing room, I get the sense he’s disappointed, too.
I push the thoughts away. Our relationship isn’t even real, but I still want to support Gabriel, so I summon all the enthusiasm I can.
“Amazing,” I say immediately. “You killed it.”
He huffs. “Thanks.” Quickly, he crosses to the mini-fridge. “Beer? Do you drink beer?”
“I’m good.”
He twists the cap off a bottle and leans back as he takes a swig. “I need to balance the second guitar riff with my vocal inflections better. There’s usually a bass to add depth, and I’m trying to do too much to make up for it not being there.” He shakes his head quickly, but his expression is still troubled. “It just wasn’t there tonight,” he says.
I frown. “The crowd loved it. And your voice was unforgettable. Honestly.”
Gabriel looks up and forces a smile. “You can save the sweet talk for the party,” he jokes. “Careful not to use it all up in private.”
“For someone so cocky, you’re not great at taking a compliment.”
“Come on,” he says, brushing that aside. “The party is backstage. Sooner we mingle, sooner we can sneak away.”
As we walk through the stage, I notice people glancing at us, eyeing the new couple. I should be putting myself into publicity mode, but I’m distracted by Gabriel’s mood. Maybe he’s never happy with a show. Maybe he’s the kind of musician who always beats himself up after, but even though I agree it wasn’t his best work, I want him to be proud.
Hell, I’m proud.
“Oh, wow,” I say the second we enter the party. The sets are all pushed to the side, the lighting changed to something swanky and dim, and there are famous people everywhere. My eyes dance around as I spot a leading ESPN anchor in a T-shirt, flirting with a famous actress in a chic black cocktail dress. The cast ofLive & Lateare scattered around, some still half-dressed in their costumes from the most recent skit, and I have to do a double-take when I realize it’s the mayor of New York hovering by the bar.
And everywhere, there are cameras flashing.
“I notice a few marked differences from your typical charity gala,” I say.
“You’ll be fine,” Gabriel reassures me, and I’m surprised when he takes my hand. “Remember. You’re with a pro.”
The warmth and strength of his grip soothes me. Gabriel’s gloomy clouds have already disappeared, my husband becoming the charmer again.
“Do you know all these people?” I ask.
“A lot of them,” he says as we move slowly through the crowd. Someone calls out a compliment on his song, and he raises his beer with an appreciative smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll introduce you.”
When I glance around again, a new thought hits me. “Oh. You’ve hooked up with some of these people, haven’t you?”
He shrugs. “You know. Some of them.”
That is unfamiliar ground for me. Not having dated anyone, I’m not quite sure I know the etiquette of meeting a current partner’s ex. And so many of his past sexual experiences are actually public knowledge, so it would be expected that I know.
I lean closer to him and lower my voice. “Please tell me if I’m meeting one of your exes so I don’t embarrass myself.”
“They’re not exes,” he objects and releases my hand. “That implies we had relationships.”
“Then please tell me if I’m meeting one of your former sex buddies from the tabloids,” I say.
He laughs. “Sex buddies?”
A woman in a collared white shirt appears in front of us, her frizzy hair pulled back. “Gabriel,” she says. “Fantastic guitar work tonight.” She looks right at me. “Your husband has magic fingers.”
