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Wearing only boxer briefs, I flop to the couch next to Willow. Her soft smile fills that Willow-shaped spot inside me, making me complete.
Golden shining gray eyes, I fall into your sway, knowing you will save me every time.
I run my fingers through her hair, brushing it behind her ear so I can see her profile.
She tilts the laptop my way, smiling. “What do you think of these?”
She clicks through several pictures she took from the wings of the stage. She’s already started processing them, changing some of them to black and white and cropping others. I’m front and center of every shot. I shrug, knowing it’ll be what she wants in the end. “Anything you want. That’s your area of expertise, sweetheart.”
It is. She’s been taking pictures of our entire tour, compiling them into a Tour One book with stories and excerpts from me and the band. I’d laughed when she told me the book’s name, so sure that there’d be a tour two. Funny thing is, she’s right. Stephen’s already making plans, but not for at least a year.
I miss having my hands in the dirt, working by Brutal’s side, and having dinner around Mama Louise’s table every night. Plus, we’re not bringing a newborn on the road and Willow is due in a few short months.
Yeah, she’s having my baby. Another Tannen generation of a badass boy or maybe a sweet girl. We won’t find out until the baby is here. Willow wants it that way as a bit of a surprise, and I couldn’t possibly deny her anything. What Willow wants, she gets. I’ll move hell and high water to make it so, no matter the request. But this had been an easy one.
She clicks through the pictures again, humming to herself. Does she even know she’s humming one of my songs? I look back to the screen to see what’s got her so enthralled, a zing going through me when I see that it’s me. She keeps working hard, and I try to wait patiently, though it’s difficult when I want to be the focus of her attention. The real me, not the me on the laptop.
But she’s dedicated, spending time every day prepping for the book and posting to her blog.
The tour book will be published under a pseudonym because Willow has been exceedingly careful to keep her identity as my wife and her blog persona very separate. She’ll go out in whatever city we’re in—explore museums, visit street vendors, and see the sights. She always comes back excited, telling me about the architecture, the gardens, the colors, and the life as she shows me each shot. I’d love to go with her, but I’m a bit too recognizable now, so I live vicariously through her. I don’t have any interest in museums, anyway, but I am interested in her and making sure that she has every reason to smile that soft smile every single day.
I think she’s right that people prefer the anonymity of the blog, though, finding themselves in some aspect of the pictures she takes. Whatever it is, it’s working well for her because her number of followers keeps rising higher and higher.
“Ooh!” She startles and grabs her phone. Zooming in on my boots on the floor, she takes several shots. Click.
Those boots have seen a lot of miles, Tannen Farm dirt, Bennett Ranch cow shit, and roads all over the nation. And now they’ll see home again.
“I’ve already got a heart and a comment,” she murmurs a second later.
“What’d you caption for my dirty old boots?” I ask, snuggling into her side. I’m done with pictures and singing, ready to fall into bed with her.
“Love my rough country man. With a diamond ring and a heart emoji,” she says smugly, knowing I’ll like that.
“I love you too. Let’s go to bed and then go home.”
I place my large palm over her belly, but I need to feel the satin of her skin. I push her shirt up over the growing bump, and she wiggles, trying to silently argue against letting me see the few pink marks that recently appeared there. I still her with a gentle kiss to each one.
“You’re beautiful, always. You do everything for everyone, and now, you’re doing the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me, carrying my baby.”
As if the baby hears my voice, I feel a small bump against my hand. I gasp, grinning at the feeling. When I look up at Willow, she’s holding her phone low in front of her.
Click.
I growl, shoving the phone down and climbing up her body. I hold myself up on my arms, keeping my weight off her, but I need to kiss her to celebrate. I need to feel her . . . under me, around me, owning me, and letting me claim her.
