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But—not yet. For now, strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight. Beckett clutches me to his chest like I’m something precious, like I’m not all bed-rumpled and sticky from last night, my skin burning from the humiliation of walking past all thosestrangers in the tour bus kitchen. He presses his face to the top of my head, breathing me in like I’m his only source of oxygen, and it makes no freaking sense, no sense at all, but it sure helps soothe the raw hurt inside me.
“You’re such a jerk,” I tell his collarbone, the pointy corner of his shirt collar prodding my cheek.
“I know. God, I handled that so badly.” Beckett hugs me even tighter. “I’m so sorry, Resa. So, so sorry. I—my brain broke when I realized I had to say goodbye to you this morning, and you bore the brunt of my stupidity.”
Sunshine licks warm over my bare arms, and I cuddle closer to Beckett’s chest. So close that we’re pressed together from head to foot, and one strong puff of wind could topple us over. Did he just say…?
“It broke your brain,” I repeat slowly, testing out the words. My stomach’s churning again, but without some different emotion this time. Something like… hope. “In a good way? I mean—because you’ll miss me too?”
Beckett’s laugh is broken, tingling against my scalp. “Because I don’t know how I’ll function without you, Resa.” His breath puffs, ruffling my short hair. “Because every cell in my body is screaming at me to bundle you back onto that bus and take you with me, or—or pack up my stuff and stay with you here, or just—”
“Okay.”
Stunned silence above me.
Across the parking lot, a camper van rattles to life and circles slowly around the grouped vehicles, then heads toward the exit.
A black tour bus engine coughs and rumbles.
Another.
Another.
“Which one?” Beckett asks urgently, pressing me away by my shoulders and staring into my eyes. “Am I staying here or areyou coming on tour? Which one, Resa? We’ll make it work either way—I’ll send someone to collect your things, or I’ll quit this job—but we have ten seconds to decide.”
Uh, duh. Easiest quiz question ever.
Patting his wrist, I beam up into Beckett’s wan face. “I’m coming with you, obviously. I haven’t even seen the Soul Obsession gig yet.”
And what am I leaving behind anyway? Two different bar tending gigs, a cluttered studio with broken AC, and a constant itchy restlessness under my skin. This is not a hard decision, just like tipping forward and kissing my grumpy writer is the most natural thing in the world. The parking lot spins around us, so warm and sunshine-bright, and even the insects buzzing around us in swarms can’t ruin this moment.
When we kiss, everything makes sense. Everything is right again.
When we kiss, my racing, panicked heart finally settles into a slow, blissful thump.
Our lips part reluctantly, and my pulse throbs between my legs, suggesting—no,demanding—that we pick up where we left off last night, already. Need this man stripped out of his suit, his styled hair rumpled, and the sheets bunched beneath his bare back.
But: “You’re sure?” Beckett presses, even asourtour bus grumbles awake, engine rumbling. Even as hands smack at the tinted windows above us, urging us to hurry up. “You’re really sure this is what you want, sweetheart?”
Catching his hand, I drag him to the open door in answer.
Ten
Beckett
Two years later
“Weird place for a rock star,” Resa says, standing at the window of our suite in theDaybreak Inn. Her hands are propped on her hips, a baggy red t-shirt tucked into her frayed denim shorts, and the sunset glows behind my wife, outlining her perfect silhouette in fire. “Sweet Cherry Cove. Sounds like one of those vintage travel postcards.Come along for sun, sea and sand!”
I place our bags on the quilted bedspread. “Plenty of rock stars have run away to stranger places.”
Resa snorts, squinting out of the window at the town below in all its kitschy glory. When she turns, the sunset outlines the small curve of her baby bump, and just like every time I catch a glimpse—my throat sticks. Can’t believe I ever got so lucky. “Well, I guess you’d know.”
Massaging one stiff shoulder, I join Resa by the window.
“True. Iamthe world authority of flighty musicians.” Thank god, or we may never have met—and Resa and I might never have built this life together, touring around the world to write profiles together on artists in their prime.
Well—that’s what we’ve been doing so far, though lately we’ve been touring more to find our forever home. Somewhere to raise our bump. “Is that an honest-to-god ice cream parlor down there? With a striped awning?”
