“Sent.”
Then I squeal and hug him.
And kiss him.
A lot.
As much as I love every day with Patty, the nights are starting to weigh on me.
I love being on stage. I appreciate the fans and sold-out arenas. But the interviews and after-parties drain the life out of me.
Pat doesn’t say a word when he’s in the green room or dressing room after a show because, as he says, bodyguards are meant to be seen and not heard. And as much as I’d be happy shouting about us to the world, he shuns the spotlight, and I want to respect that.
Meanwhile, the record execs who keep coming to my shows have other plans for me.
Night after night, label bigwigs find me the moment I leave my interviews, and the first thing out of their mouths is always the same:
“So, you and Connor Nash?”
And every time, my answer is the same:
“We’re not dating, but I’m looking forward to playing with him.”
“You don’t have to marry the guy, but dating him would be great for your career.”
I’m so sick of hearing this, I’m about to rip up my contract.
And what’s worse? Patty hears this.
Every night, he stands stationed at the door, arms folded, listening to them put more and more pressure on me.
All I want him to do is stride across the room, kiss me in front of everyone, and tell them, “Sorry, she’s taken.”
But he just stands there.
With that impassive, unreadable expression.
The closer we get to Memphis, the worse it gets.
And now, tonight, two nights before the biggest concert of my career, the pressure is so heavy I feel like it’s squeezing the life out of me.
Tonight’s label rep is a woman only a few years older than me, Greer Hollis.
She’s sleek and stylish, with ash-blonde hair cut into a sharp bob and cat-eye glasses that screamminimalist style, maximum power.
She gives me a moment to say hi to the other people in the room, but I don’t talk to any of them.
My band has formed a strong bond, and while they all talk in a corner with some VIP or another, I don’t do more than wave at them.
I miss my friends.
And I try not to let the exec’s words get under my skin.
“Lucy, can we talk for a minute about Connor Nash?” she says.
I glance around, surprised she’s not even trying to be discreet.
But everyone close enough to pay attention has heard this a dozen times before.
