Idol (VIP, #1)(98)

We haven’t been completely idle. For the past month, Libby and I have been writing songs. A couple of them are for Kill John, a couple are for Libby’s album. She still doesn’t want the limelight, but Jax, of all people, pointed out that she can have a career on her own terms. So that’s what she’s going to do: write, record, and perform in small venues.

Next week we’re going back to New York. I’ll start trying out the new songs with the guys, and Libby will go to the recording studio. But for now, I’m making the most of our semi-vacation.

I set down my plate and grab my Martin, making a few adjustments. “I’ve got a song. But you have to sing with me.”

“I will if you tell me what you’re playing,” she says.

Grinning, I bite my lip, a thrill of anticipation going through me. “You’ll get it.”

I start the White Stripes’ “Hotel Yorba.” By the end of the opening riff, she’s playing along, her rhythm framing my lead. We sing the refrain laughing, playing our guitars double time.

Her eyes are bright when the song ends. “You have that as my ringtone.”

“Yep.” I lay my guitar down. “Set it the second I left this house and you behind.”

“Why that one?”

“Lyrics fit my mood. I, too, just wanted to be back on this porch, alone with you.”

Her expression softens. “Well, here we are.”

“And what about the rest of it, Libs?” I ask, my chest growing tight. “Am I the man you love the most?”

A flush rises over her cheeks as she looks at me, the little spot where her pulse beats on her neck visibly fluttering. She knows the lyrics. She knows what I’m asking. “Yes,” she says, almost shyly.

I’ve had this planned. Doesn’t stop my heart from trying to pound its way out of my chest. Slowly I kneel in front of her, my hands settling on her lush hips. “I’ll love you my whole life, and it won’t feel like enough. So what do you say, Libs? Want to go get married?”

Her smile is my sun. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. “Where’s my ring, lawn bum?”

I smile against her lips. “Look in my pocket, Elly May.”

Her little jolt of surprise is cute. Did she think I wouldn’t have it? The way her hand shakes as she pulls out the small box tells me she’s as nervous as I am. For a long moment she looks at the vintage gold-and-emerald ring. Then her eyes well up, and she flings her arm around my neck, putting me out of my misery. “Oh, hell. I’m marrying a musician.”

I hold her close, breathe her in. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

Her laughter is a warm breath against my neck. “Yes, we are. And I’ll love you forever, Killian James. That much I know for certain.”





Thank You!





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Sophie



You know those people who Lady Luck always seems to be kissing on the cheek? The ones who get a promotion just for showing up to work? Who win that awesome raffle prize? The person who finds a hundred-dollar bill on the ground? Yeah, that’s not me. And it’s probably not most of us. Lady Luck is a selective bitch.

But today? Lady Luck has finally turned her gaze upon me. And I want to bow down in gratitude. Because today, I’ve been upgraded to first class for my flight to London. It’s due to overbooking, and who knows why they picked me, but they did. First f*cking class, baby. I’m so giddy, I practically dance to my seat.

And, oh, what a beautiful seat it is, all plush cream leather and burled wood paneling—though I’m guessing it’s fake wood for safety reasons. Not that it matters. It’s a little self-contained pod, complete with a cubby for my bag and shoes, a bar, an actual reading lamp, and a widescreen TV.

I sink into the seat with a sigh. It’s a window seat, sectioned off from my neighbor with a frosted glass panel I can lower with the touch of a button. Or the two seats can become one cozy cabin by closing the glossy panel that sections off the aisle. It reminds me of an old-fashioned luxury train cabin.

I’m one of the first people on board, so I give in to temptation and rifle through all the little goodies they’ve left me: mints, fuzzy socks, sleep mask, and—ooh—a little bag of skin care products. Next I play around with my seat, raising and lowering my privacy screen—that is until it makes an ominous-sounding click. The screen freezes an inch above the divider and refuses to rise again.

Cringing, I snatch my hand away and busy myself with removing my shoes and flipping through the first class menu. It’s long, and everything looks delicious. Oh man, how am I supposed to go back to the cattle-roundup, meat-or-chicken-in-a-tin hell that is economy class after this?