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I finished up my last cup of coffee and glanced at my phone. It was mostly text messages from the guys asking how the rest of the night went.
I replied “great” and left it at that for now. I was still reeling from the fact that Van and I were lovers. I truly had no words.
“Did they leave any messages?” I asked.
I hoped to fuck that Greg was going to mind his goddamn business. What Van and I were to each other was private and I wanted it to stay that way. For now.
Van tapped his phone. “No. But I got an email from a reporter looking for a comment about the concert.”
“What do you mean? We gave our interviews last night.”
“Listen to this article I was tagged on,” Van scooted closer and read aloud. “Who is Ivan Cross? The Wayward Lane concert last night was a surprise for fans in New Orleans in more ways than one. The impromptu event included a new song performed by lead singer Brodie James and a songwriter named Ivan Cross. The heartfelt duet had the entire audience, including yours truly, swooning. The video of that performance has gone viral on social media, with fans clamoring for more. James introduced Cross as a songwriting partner, but he is, in fact, the band’s manager. Given their chemistry on stage, there’s speculation about what type of partnership they really have. However, James was later pictured with his date for the night, model and actor Colm McDade.”
I rested my head on Van’s shoulder. “I guess the date was a good idea after all. That’ll keep the tabloids guessing for a while.”
“I hope so.” Van passed over his phone. “This is the picture of you and Colm from last night. Hopefully, that will quell the firestorm.”
I glanced at the picture. It was a good shot but practiced.
No one else would be able to tell, but I could.
My heart wasn’t in it. Neither was Colm’s.
“I’m not sorry I asked you to perform with me. And I’m really happy about the reaction to the song. The fans loved it. If the reporters want a comment, they can wait until the song is officially recorded and released. You and I are no one’s business but our own.”
“Maybe you should put some thought into who you’d like to record the song with. Then we can steer the press toward that.”
“I liked Ace’s idea. I want you to record it with me.”
Van nearly dropped his phone into my coffee cup. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t.”
“Greg isn’t going to allow that. I’m not a professional singer.”
“Greg can go fuck himself. Our performance is already viral. This is what the fans want, and that’s what we’re gonna give them.”
“Can’t you record it with Holls? Or maybe another singer who would complement your voice?”
“No.”
“Brodie—”
“You’re the manager, Van. Make it happen.”
Van ran a hand through his hair and tugged at the ends. “Fuck. You are the reason I now have gray hair amongst the brown.”
“Good. I have a thing for sexy silver foxes. Or, one in particular.”
Van took my cup and put it aside, along with his phone.
Then he playfully pounced on me.
I pretended to fight him off, but really? Who was I kidding? He could manhandle me and pin me to any surface, any time.
After we tussled and he won (I let him), he looked down at me with serious intent in his blue eyes. With his dark morning scruff and his lips swollen from my kisses, I couldn’t help but stare back. Van was so beautiful he made my chest ache.
He was disheveled, happy, relaxed.
