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“But what about your poetry? If I should be playing ballads, shouldn’t you be writing poems?”
“That’s not exactly a lucrative profession.” She said it like it was some big joke. Like, what an idiot she was for majoring in something she couldn’t put to practical use. But really, she was interested to hear his ideas.
“Can I read some of your poetry?”
She rolled onto her back, taking in a sky full of twinkling stars. “The greatest lyricist in the history of music? Not hardly.”
He brushed the hair off her forehead. “I hope one day you’ll trust me enough to let me read them.”
And right then it became clear. They’d both lost a parent. They’d both had their sense of safety in the world shattered.
They wouldn’t truly trust each other until they were their authentic selves.
And she wanted him enough to take that risk. She sat up. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll show you my poetry if you do something for me.”
He watched her warily.
“You’ve got to perform your ballads live.”
“Sure. I’ll bring my guitar to the pool tomorrow.”
“Nope. If I find the right venue in Malé…” She held his gaze. “Will you do it?”
Because her gut told her their future hung on his response.
There’s something very wrong with me.
I had the hottest rock star in the world all to myself—we could be cuddled on the rocker overlooking the ocean or banging in the open-air shower.
But no, I had to make him prove himself to me.
She’d worked with their butler to find the perfect venue for a solo acoustic gig, and now Della sat alone watching the crowd drink, chat, and listen to the soulful music piped in through speakers.
Bex didn’t look happy on that stage. In his fake mustache, a ball cap that hid all his sexy, tousled hair, he sat on a stool adjusting a microphone. The audience completely ignored him. He might’ve been a dentist for all they knew.
It just felt like there was so much at stake. They’d gotten so close, so fast. They’d declared their love for each other.
She wished she didn’t need proof from him. Because truthfully, there were no guarantees. With love, you just had to jump in with your whole heart and try to make it work.
After the show, she’d back off. Trust that it would work out between them.
She just hoped this crowd appreciated him. And if they didn’t, if this was a big flop, what damage might she do? Thanks to Freemont Street, he had a terrible association with performing.
Everyone in the club seemed cool, though. Except that one group in the center. A large, boisterous man in a Hawaiian-print shirt told one story after another, using laughter to punctuate his sentences. His friends were in his thrall.
The longer she waited for the show to begin, the more anxious she grew. She pulled out her phone to text the butler.
Della: You’re sure this is the right venue? What if this crowd’s expecting rock ‘n’ roll?
Laki: This is the right venue because it is the only one whose act cancelled at the last minute. Therefore, it is the only venue.
Della: Haha. That is not reassuring.
Laki: Art is subjective, no? Look, if it’s not going well, you can get up on stage and distract them with your poetry. Poetry slam!
Well, she supposed if she’d wanted a serious butler-guest relationship, she shouldn’t have joked around with him.
Della: You’re making me sweat. I can’t sweat in a dress like this.
