And just as suddenly, I feel my own lips part in surprise and …
Anticipation.
I’ve never kissed someone. I’ve never let someone get close enough to kiss me. Every iota of self-preservation and ambition screams at me to back up, avert my gaze, but there’s that other part of me—the part that sees how happy my parents and sister are, the part that sees the joy my friends have in their partners—that doesn’t care. That part of me is crying out that it’s lonely, that it’s empty, that there has to be more to life than a career that could be taken from me at any moment.
No—that makes it sound like Patty is just some placeholder. Like he’s only here because the timing was convenient, not because he matters. But he’s so much more than that. He’s the man who stood up for me. Who protected me. He’s the man who gets my music like no one else does, who feels it every bit as deeply as I do. He’s the man who jammed with my parents last night and didn’t judge my dad for his past.
I’m not saying I’m ready to abandon my tour if he stubs his toe, but I can’t pretend he’s just some guy.
And I’m not sure I want to.
Also, he’s the manliest kind of hot possible. The scruff. The thick dark hair. Those soulful amber eyes that strike a fire in my gut like a flint.
My heart hammers as Patty gets closer, and when his warm hands reach up to my cheek, I think I might need that fainting couch for real. His hands on either side of my face are steady and sure, protective but not possessive as he guides my face closer to his. We’re so close, I can taste the vanilla and hazelnut on his breath and can almost feel the scruff of his whiskers. I close my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me.
Still waiting.
What are we waiting for?
My eyes fly open, and Patty’s in the exact same spot.
But so am I.
“What are you waiting for?” I whisper.
“Something I shouldn’t be,” he says.
When I don’t respond—don’t move a muscle or bat an eyelid—he rubs his nose against mine, starting at the tip, sliding up the bridge, and lingering at the soft dip where my nose meets my eye. A heartbeat later, he presses a kiss to my closed eyelids. Then his warmth pulls away as he leans back, releasing me.
“Time for sound check, Queenie.”
I hear the door open and close, and then I fall onto the couch, panting as oxygen floods my lungs and my thoughts race to figure out what. Just. Happened.
Patrick O’Shannan almost kissed me.
And I almost kissed him back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LOU
I’m mid-set in Augusta, running backstage when Manny grabs me. I have all of two minutes for my wardrobe change and a quick breather, and I try to do both as he talks to me, his gaze averted.
I’m wearing a nude unitard onesie beneath my clothes, but I appreciate the gesture.
“Just got a call from the label. They have a surprise coming for you on stage.”
“What?” My wardrobe techs are pulling my black ball gown on me while I stand with my arms stretched wide. My custom IEMs are incredible—everything Patty promised and more—but I have to pop them out to hear Manny. And that’s when the audience noise floods me. It’s so loud that I feel like I’m being washed away. Good thing my wardrobe team is holding me so tight.
“The label has a surprise for you! They said to go along with it,” he yells.
I shake my head, trying to figure out what in the world Third Street Records would send me during a concert.
With my dress on, I stomp into my rhinestone boots. “Manny, do you know what it is?”
“No. They said they’ll call me when it’s here, and it should be any minute.”
“If it’s a live snake, I’m quittin’ this tour,” I yell, holding my IEM at the ready so I can push it back in.
