You'd Be Mine(75)

“Sweet tea? Blech,” he says, making a face.

“Perish the thought. Hot tea, chamomile. Very macho.”

“Water’s great, thanks.”

I grab us a couple of bottled waters and sit next to him, bending one knee under me.

He cracks open the cap and takes a sip before clearing his throat. “You know, you were right, earlier. At the cemetery. They didn’t deserve you.”

I swallow wrong and feel my cheeks heat. “You heard that? What else did you hear?”

“Most of it, I expect. I was just going to give you space to do your thing, but when I heard the screaming, I panicked.” I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand, shaking his head. “My point is, you were right. They weren’t good parents, and they didn’t deserve you, but they … she was an incredible artist. You can acknowledge that while still being angry.

“Like with Danny. I’m still mad as hell he left me, but I’m proud to be his little brother. He gave up his life for others. I can be angry and still admire and love the bastard.”

I let his words settle over me, soaking into my brittle pieces and mending them just a little bit. “So you’re saying be angry but still celebrate her career.”

He smirks. “Or be angry and show the world how Cora’s daughter is even better than she was.”

I bite my lip, but I know my smile is flat-out moony. I fan my face. “Dang, boy, you’re all charm.”

He tilts his head to the side and sinks back into my couch. “Only for you.”

That settles it. I can’t let him walk away from me now. Or ever, probably. Everything about him and me and this moment and his lips and that smile and the way his words are like a balm to my soul—all of it—means I can’t let him go. He’s mine now. In a way, it feels like we’ve belonged to each other all along. Even back when he was just a voice over the loudspeakers at Young Stars, my heart knew it was done for. We just had to grow up some. Still do, I’m sure. Only now, I’m ready to grow alongside him if he’ll let me. “Where are you staying? Do you have somewhere to be?”

He sits up, tugging his phone out of his pocket and tapping in his pass code. “Told Fitz I’d crash in his room tonight.”

I slink forward, holding his gaze before reaching out at the last second and stealing his phone. He watches me, his expression curious but open. With three swipes, I’ve pulled up his texts. I type out a quick message and hit Send before I lose my nerve, and pass it back to him.

He reads it before his eyes jump to mine, shining.

“I just got you back,” I explain shyly. “And we never got to just be us on tour. Spend the weekend with me? Please? We can order takeout and turn off our phones and play guitar and—”

“Make out on your couch?”

“I mean, I certainly wouldn’t turn you down, if it’s on the table.”

His smile is blinding. “I don’t have a change of clothes or anything. I left it all at the hotel.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m actually sort of famous. I’ll have some delivered.”

He laughs, tugging me so I’m lying across him, and he tilts my chin down, his eyes caressing my lips before his mouth follows suit.

“I may never leave,” he warns in between kisses.

“Fine by me.”





30



Annie


april 12

las vegas, nevada

country music awards

I haven’t seen Jefferson yet, and everyone is acting like that’s perfectly normal.

Our flights didn’t line up, so we never got to rehearse together. Like, that’s insane, right? I always assumed major award shows were meticulous in their planning. It’s a live show. Why wouldn’t they insist on a dress rehearsal? Instead, Connie shrugs and says, “You’re a professional performer, Annie. Why should this be any different from playing in front of thousands in a concert? Just as live.”

Which is perfectly true. Minus the teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy fact of me not seeing him in weeks. True, in comparison to never, that’s barely a glitch, but it’s like they’ve completely disregarded my need for regular exposure. FaceTime barely manages a dent in my anxiety.

Jesus H., I will die. That’s it. I’ll have a stroke right there onstage in front of millions of viewers.

Why is this not obvious to anyone else?

I’ve been the consummate professional all along. Willows is up for Best New Artist, which there’s absolutely zero chance of us winning, but it’s thrilling all the same. We’re up against two country rock duos, a pop princess who’s looking to cross genres, and a diva whose caravan parked over the top of my allotted bus space.

We relocated. It’s cool. I get it. We’re only nominated because of my mom. Legacy winners make for good press.

Of course, young traditionalists do occasionally win. Jefferson won last year against all odds.

I rip a spaghetti strap clear off the fabric tugging it over my shoulder, and let out a growl of frustration.

Kacey rushes in, horrified. “Annie, your gown! We leave in thirty!”

“Scissors, please,” I mutter. She passes me shears, and I unzip my dress, making quick work of the other three fastenings holding the useless straps to my gown. I zip it back up and turn to face my cousin. “Can you tell?”