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My heart sinks. “We can find something else.”
“How about you come home with me? You liked my place better anyway, didn’t you?”
“You mean it?” I almost don’t want to get my hopes up. I don’t want to risk falling apart if I’m wrong.
She kisses me, and it’s the sweetest, tenderest kiss I’ve ever felt. “Of course. But you should bring that mixing board with you,” she teases.
“Like you’d convince me to leave Mackie behind.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes and leans her head on my chest. “Of course you’ve named it.”
“Come on,” I say, standing, holding my hand out to her. “Let’s go home.”
Her hand slips into mine, fitting perfectly. I vow then and there to never, ever let her go again.
Epilogue
Chelsea
2 years later
Three albums in two years and more shows than I can count, and I still get the same thrill performing with Ian that I got that first night, every single time. There’s just something about that man that makes me melt, makes me lose my mind, and makes my heart swell with love.
We still do the odd solo show here and there, but the other is always waiting in the wings. There’s nothing like a good performance to kick the libido into high gear and neither one of us wants anyone else answering the call. And when we tour, it’s always together.
Sure, some promoters are annoyed by the insistence, but we don’t care. That’s what we are. Even after all this time, we can’t stand to be apart from each other for very long. And it doesn’t hurt that the fans love it.
Ever since the video of Kandy was released, the whole perception of Ian changed. Everyone that had been crucifying him before turned heel and praised him for his accomplishments and struggles. But Ian never lets it bother him. He knows there will always be fair-weather fans, but he also knows that there are some of us who will be on his side, always, no matter what.
Kandy barely got more than a slap on the wrist for the conspiracy, possession, and defamation charges. We didn’t really expect much from the justice system, but her career is over. She’s writing bitchy pieces on her blog that no one goes to and working at a gas station. No one really feels sorry for her.
The crowd cheers as we finish our last song—of the last performance we’re going to have for a while—and Ian takes my hand and holds it up high, the rings on my finger sparkling in the spotlight. No matter how many songs we write, how many tours we go on, Ian always wants to close the show with that first song we wrote together.
I’m not complaining. It still turns me on like nobody’s business. And at this point everyone knows it, so it’s a great closer. Even after canceling that first tour early, the album made a ton of money for Wish Givers and they invite us back year after year for more. And we love giving back, so we never miss an event if we can help it.
“Can we get another round of applause for my gorgeous wife?” Ian shouts, holding the mic out to the audience. They roar and I’m giggling, trying not to shrink back from the wall of noise coming at me.
“I know you might be sad that this is the last time we’re going to be on stage for a little while, but I have so
mething that might cheer you up,” he says, grinning at me.
I roll my eyes and shrug. I told him he shouldn’t, but I know he’s going to anyway. It’s not like I’m angry about it—more exasperated. But that could explain half of my interactions with Mr. Monroe. It doesn’t make me love him any less. I’m just worried one of these days my eyes are going to get stuck from all the exaggerated rolling they do.
He wraps one arm around me from behind, settling his hand on the swell of my belly that no amount of optical illusions in dress form have been able to conceal.
“We had the ultrasound! It’s a girl!” he says brightly, and the crowd goes nuts again. There’s nothing I can do but laugh, and then Ian’s sweeping me into his arms, dipping me low, and kissing me with everything he’s got.
“I love you,” he says, for only me to hear.
“I love you too,” I answer, my heart so full with love it might burst.
I know we’ve had our ups and downs, and I know the kind of life we have will never be easy. We’ll always be under public scrutiny, we’ll always have our every move on display for the world, and our daughter is going to have to face the same thing. I know that the traveling and the industry parties give Ian ample opportunity to fall back into his own ways, but I trust him. I know the man I married isn’t the man that he used to be. And I know that this guy is here to stay.
Some might call me naive or foolish, but I don’t care. They don’t know what it’s like to love Ian Monroe, they don’t know what it’s like to have him make you feel like the only important thing in the world—okay, so now there’s another important thing, but I’m willing to share the spotlight with our little girl.
“ONE. MORE. SONG,” the crowd chants, over and over again.
Ian’s still holding me, dipped low over the stage so we can actually hear each other over the roar.
