“I have to talk to Wynter,” I say finally. “If she’s not on board, I can’t do it. I’ve waited a long time for someone like her to be in my life. I can’t risk the relationship for a maybe.”
“If she loves you, you won’t be risking anything.”
That’s easy to say when you’re a billionaire.
But I won’t point that out.
I’m going to sit down with Wynter and spell it out for her.
And I’ll do whatever she thinks is best.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wynter
Ross is waiting when I get to the airport in Vancouver and he presses his lips firmly to mine when I reach him. There’s a possessiveness to his touch that thrills me and I lean against him happily.
“I’m so glad I’m here,” I whisper.
“Me too.” His lips find mine again, kissing me chastely but repeatedly, like he can’t get enough.
“We should continue this at the hotel,” I say with a chuckle.
“Sadly, we have to head straight to the arena for soundcheck. But I’ll make it up to you later.”
“I know you will.” I slide my hand into his and we head for baggage claim to retrieve my two large suitcases. It’s not like I’ve come for the weekend—this trip is for the foreseeable future.
My bags come out quickly and Ross wheels them out to the waiting Uber while I follow with my carry-ons. I didn’t realize how much stuff I use on a daily basis until I tried to pack it all. Not just clothes, but shoes and toiletries and little comforts like candles and my resistance bands. Things that are just part of my life. Reducing them to two large and one small suitcase was challenging. Hopefully, I won’t think of anything I forgot that I can’t live without for a few months.
“I already had an interview,” I tell Ross as we head for the arena. “With a travel nurse agency.”
“Yeah?” He glances at me.
“They’ll let me start whenever I’m ready, so I don’t have to worry about money.”
He nods, though he doesn’t say anything.
“You okay?” I ask after a moment.
“Just thinking about the show,” he says, doing something on his phone. “Pete’s sick so I’m doing double-duty tonight.”
“Oh, shit. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’ll let you know. Kingston is actually going to step in since, you know, he can’t sing a lot but he’s perfectly healthy.”
“How’s that going?” I ask casually.
“It’s good. The specialist told him he’s healing but it’s going to take time because he’s still singing a few songs every show. If he wants to heal faster, he should stop singing altogether.”
“But he’s not going to.”
“People spend a lot of money to see the band—and he’s part of the draw. He’s been really good, though. He only sings two songs, both lower registers, and then two more songs where he does background vocals. The rest of the time he’s on piano or acoustic guitar.”
“And how are you doing?” I squeeze his hand. “Does it still feel like you don’t belong out there?”
His smile is soft, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I really don’t know the answer to that question. I’m comfortable with the band, both personally and musically, but it’s not my band. I’m hired help. So, the applause is for me but not really. The accolades include me but I can’t take credit because other than one song at the end of the night, it’s not my music.”
“Well, if you look at it that way, no cover band should ever get applause or make money. No one should ever do a cover. I mean, is that what you think?”
