Page 8 of All Tied Down

“No songs.”

“What?”

“You’re not writing me into any songs. I don’t want to be your breakup song or have anyone chasing me down asking about your inspiration for some big hit I won’t be listening to.”

“So you admit it would⁠—”

“Garrett!”

“Sorry, sorry.” His expression is more sincere as he holds up his hands, palms facing me. “No songs. What else?”

“This is temporary. A vacation. We treat it like Vegas. No feelings and no messy divorce. Our lives overlap too much to have it be any other way.”

“We’re going to have to convince people we’re in love.”

“And I need you to be able to do that without actually being in love.”

“Just me?”

“Garrett, I’m serious,” I huff, noting my panties are all but forgotten on the floor. Snatching them up, I hastily put them back on and watch as he frowns. “Focus.”

“Fine. No being in love. No songs. What else?”

“I’ll let you know when we get to Ironwood. What about you?”

“Honestly, I just need this to work, so whatever you want, I want.”

“That’s incredibly naive.”

“Maybe it is. But I trust you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Damn him.

Scrolling through my contacts, I put the phone to my ear. “Hey Em,” Kat says as I try to rein myself in. “Tom’s here; you’re on speaker.”

“Hey guys!” My voice is too high—unnatural, but I can’t seem to stop. “So, funny story…”

“Is everything all right?” she asks as I press my lips together and meet Garrett’s smoky brown eyes.

“So you know how they say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Well, that’s not entirely true and…” Pausing to gather myself, I do the one thing I hate above all else. “Tom, I need your help.”

3

GARRETT

Andrews International Security, all of whom I met in Vegas, snuck us out the back of the building through the underground garage wearing a variety of expressions—some amused, some indifferent at seeing me with Emerson. She was quiet on the hour-long trip to Ironwood, a suburb outside of Chicago that Colt, Roan, Tom, and I call home.

It’s like any small town with nosy neighbors, your typical businesses along Main Street, and festivals and traditions that add a certain kind of charm you can’t find anywhere else. We didn’t gate our road to keep our neighbors out; we did it to minimize our interactions with the ones looking to make a quick buck with a tabloid or tourists coming in for the day.

The people who live in Ironwood don’t care that I’m the lead singer of a rock band or that Colt is the shortstop for a professional baseball team. They still expect us to donate to their cookie fundraiser and ask to wash our cars when we drive past the grocery store parking lot so they can get new jerseys for the football team.

We usually donate enough to cover whatever the event is but they never expect it—and that makes all the difference. Colt stood out there last year and made sure they didn’t leave any watermarks on the paint of his truck before handing them a check that had the team whooping and dancing with sponges still in hand.

Instead of packing it in, the boys doubled down, their smiles wide and infectious as they washed every last car with enthusiasm and gratitude.

“We’re here,” I tell Emerson as I pull up to the front gate, her eyes lifting from her phone to gaze around.

Punching in the code, I wait to enter, the gate imposing as it swings open before clanging into place when we pass. This is a private road, and we have security that patrols the area because even though Ironwood is quiet, we’re not foolish enough to think emboldened fans won’t try to get to us.

“I’m going to need a driver,” Emerson mutters as we pull into my driveway and park, and she drops her phone into her purse. I’d met Emerson before Vegas, but that trip had been an immersive experience.