by Roxy Reid
Jim stares at me for a moment, then closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “You two are such fucking idiots.” He opens his eyes. “He’s not happier because he doesn’t know your answer yet. You just got his. But he doesn’t have yours.”
I look at Finn, standing there alone on stage, putting his performance mask back on, sliding smoothly into the next anthem like the cocky rockstar he is.
I look at the table down below, where they’re running the projections.
I think of the flash stick in my pocket, with all my favorite photos from the tour.
It’s not a love song, but it’ll have to do.
I start heading down.
“Charlie, where are you going? What are you doing?” Jim asks.
“I’ll be back in a sec!”
It ends up taking more than a second, to persuade the projections guy to cue up my photos to run before and during their encore, since he’s one of the few people on tour I don’t know very well, but he finally agrees on the condition that I lobby for him to get one of Owen’s kittens.
I climb back up to Jim and watch the rest of the concert with butterflies in my stomach.
Finally, Finn and the band finish their big number, take their bows, and walk off stage.
The stage lights darken, and the first of my photos go up. Murmuring and pointing sweeps through the arena like a lazy tidal wave.
I bite my lip, and pray Finn takes this the way I think he will.
18
Finn
“Well, would you look at that,” Bridget says from somewhere behind me.
I take the towel and water Karmine offers me and strip off my shirt.
“Finn, I think you should see this,” Mariana says.
“What?” I say exasperated. I like performing, but it’s been a long day, and, honestly, I just want to finish the performance, crash for the night, and go to Charlie.
Wordlessly, Owen points to the stage.
Or more specifically, the scrim behind the stage, where they’ve been projecting video of the concert.
Only now it’s not video. It’s still images.
Beautiful vibrant shots of all of us on tour. There’s Mariana and Owen and me on stage, working like a perfect unit. There’s shots of us with our backs to the camera, facing a sea of fans and stage lights. We look like fucking legends.
Powerful. Charismatic. Untouchable.
But the photos don’t stop there. They’re mixed in with personal ones. One’s that show the sweet, sharp, human side of everyone on tour. There’s one of me, sitting in a hotel room, working on a song …
And that’s when I realize.
These are Charlie’s photos. And she’s really fucking good.
Out in the crowd, people are laughing, and cheering, and wolf-whistling, and giving audible awwwwwws. It feels like looking at a friend’s family album. Warm. Intimate. An inside joke.
There’s more photos of me. Me singing to empty auditoriums during rehearsals. Me playing backstage. Me writing. Me glowering at Charlie in the airport that first day.
And then the final photo, the one Charlie said was just for her. Standing on the banks of the Mississippi, wild and alive from being up all night, but also relaxed and quiet in the early morning light.
Waiting for dawn.
I swallow. My throat is tight, “She sent this in? Even after I fired her?”
“No,” Bridget shakes her head. “She never sent it to me. And I don’t think she has anyone else’s email.”
“But that would mean …” Mariana trails off.
“She’s here,” I say.
I can’t believe it. I’ve been pouring out my heart and she’s here? Just watching?
I stalk out onstage and grab the microphone.
“Charlie De Luca,” I growl, “get your ass on stage now.”
19
Charlie
I gape. Finn is standing shirtless on stage, fiercely staring down the crowd, and demanding I join him on stage in front of thousands of people.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.
“Charlie,” Finn growls, and it sends a thrill up my spine.
“Who’s Charlie De Luca?” someone in front of us asks.
“It’s her!” Jim says, enthusiastically, pointing straight at me. “THIS IS CHARLIE De Luca.”
I scramble to cover his mouth, but it’s too late. People all around us are looking at me.
I look at Jim, “Traitor.”
He winks, “You’ll thank me one day.”
Before I know it, I’m getting helped and guided and shoved toward the stage. It is both terrifying, and the perfect metaphor for loving Finn: overpowering and sweeping, with a hint of danger, and a beautiful man waiting for me on the other end.
Hands lift me onstage, and I have the presence of mind to be thankful I’m not wearing a skirt, before I’m dumped unceremoniously on stage in front of Finn.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. The stage lights turn my peripheral vision into a haze of bright light, and the roar of the crowd feels strangely distant. His chest is rising and falling, and his hair is a mess, but his eyes are intense, fixed on me, and it’s like everything I want, everything I feel, is coming into focus. I’m a tuning fork, and I’m tuned to him.
It’s just me and him. No songs. No photos. Just Finn and me.
And I’ve got something to say. I take a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry, Finn—”
“Charlie, I was a fucking idiot—”
We stop, and smile, and oh, his smile is enough to send me to the moon and back.
“I love you—” I say.
“God, I love you—” he says at the same time.
This time I laugh, delighted. I can’t help it. Against all odds, after all this time. I love Finn Ryan. And he loves me back.
He takes the first step toward me, but I get to him first, and as I rise up on my toes, he kisses me soundly, in front of everyone.
And I kiss him back, my palms holding his gorgeous, gorgeous face in place. We’re losing ourselves somewhere in a land of endless dawns, and I don’t think we’re ever going to stop.
The band must think the same thing, because behind us Mariana counts off with her drumsticks, “1, 2, 3, 4!” and starts in on the lighting fast drum solo that kicks off the encore, with Owen picking up the melody.
“That’s your cue,” I say, shoving Finn away.
He gives me a look that tells me I’ll be paying for that shove in bed later, then he steps up to the mic and belts out the encore song. He’s perfect and powerful and fills the whole arena, because, of course, he does.
I don’t know what to do on stage without my camera, so I start to back away, but Finn looks back at me, and there’s so much joy on his face, I can’t leave.
For once in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
20
Charlie
“Charlieeeeee, I’ve got cornetti,” Finn crouches near the bed and holds up a bag of Italian pastries, “and coffee.”
I smile drowsily at him in the dark hotel room. I must have overslept. Which makes perfect sense, given all the thoroughly wonderful things we did to each other last night. I glance at the clock, then blink in confusion. It’s 6 a.m.
“Finn, I love you,” I say, and his smile is brilliant. “BUT WHY THE HELL AM I AWAKE?”
Finn’s grin turns wicked, “Because. We have someplace to go.”
I look at him suspiciously, “Where?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
I roll over and hide my head under the pillow. He snatches the pillow and throws it across the room.
“FINN! YOU’RE HORRIBLE.”
“Yeah, but I’m your horrible person. Come on.” He steals the bedding, then gets momentarily distracted by my naked body.
Sensing weakness, I run my hand slowly up my stomach, stroke my breast, “Come on, Finn. Come back to bed. We can have a lazy morning, drift off into sleep. And th
en in a few hours we can have sex like normal people once the sun is actually up.”
He looks at me with longing. And then he shakes his head, at first reluctantly, but then stubbornly, “No. No we need to go.”
“You’re turning down sex?”
“This is more important,” he says.
“Who are you, and what have you done with Finn?” I ask, and he tosses me my clothes, followed by the bag of pastries, which hits me in the face.
“Come on,” Finn says. “We’re burning daylight.”
“THERE’S NO DAYLIGHT YET.”
But I’m awake, and the cornetti smell amazing, and this is clearly important to the weirdo I’m in love with, so I get dressed, bundle up in one of Finn’s coats, and chug coffee as he leads me down to the lobby and out of the hotel.
We catch a cab, and Finn tells the driver to go to a park we used to hang out at, with a great view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I look at Finn, curious, but he doesn’t elaborate.
We ride there in silence. The city is dark with morning fog, but it’s easing toward a lighter grey that means the sun will rise soon.
I reach to my left and take his hand. He runs a thumb over the back of each of my fingers, hesitating on the ring finger. When a glance up at him, he’s vibrating with happy, nervous energy.
Ok, this is weird.
The cab gets to the park, and we hop out. I toss my empty coffee cup, and Finn takes my hand again. Without talking about it, we walk to our spot.
Chosen for its stellar view, relative privacy, and the heavy old picnic table where Finn carved our initials after our first kiss.
Well, more like after our seventh. Once we got started, it took us a while to stop.
I sit on the table, and Finn moves to stand between my legs. He cups my face, his eyes suddenly serious. “I love you,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
“No, I mean … God.” Finn kisses me, fierce and tender. His heat spreads through me, and I slide my hands up his back, urging him on, but he steps away.
“I told you the last time I had a kiss like that I bought a wedding ring,” he says.
“No offense, Finn, but I don’t want to hear about another woman right now,” I say, reaching out to catch his collar and tug him back toward me. Back where he belongs.
He lets me pull him in, but he doesn’t kiss me. “It was you, Charlie.”
I stop tugging stunned, “What?”
He digs in his pocket, and pulls out a simple, chased silver band. “I wanted to ask you to marry me. I went to your parents to get their blessing and they … well, pointed out all the ways your life would be worse if you left school at eighteen to marry an unemployed musician. And well, they weren’t wrong.”
I’m floored. I cup his cheek, “Finn.”
He fiddles with the ring, flipping it back and forth between his fingers, and I feel like my heart is rising and falling with each twist of the ring.
Why is he telling me this now? And why did he bring the ring?
“The thing is, I think I could give you a good life now. And hell, even if I couldn’t, you’re not going to let anyone stand in your way. So now there’s no reason not too …” he flips the ring.
The sun begins to rise around us.
“Finn. What are you saying?”
He takes a deep breath, then squares his shoulders, and looks me straight in the eye, “That this ring is yours. I know it’s too soon to ask you to marry me, which is why I’m not asking. I’m just telling you, this is where I am. I want to marry you. Have pretty much since the first time you kissed me. So whether or not you ever want that too, I’m yours. In pretty much every way a man can be. But I’m done carrying this ring. It’s yours now.”
He presses it into my palm.
“Wear it, don’t wear it. On a necklace, on your other hand. I’m just saying, it’s yours. I’m yours. However you want me, for as long as you want me. So let me know if you ever get to the point where you want marriage. Because I’ve been there for ten years. But I don’t want you to feel rushed, or trapped, or pressured, or …”
I slide the ring onto my left ring finger.
Finn’s breath catches, and he looks up at me, eyes bright with painful hope, “Do you … do you mean that?”
“Marry me, Finn Ryan,” I say, throwing my arms wide as the dawn breaks around us. “Make me the happiest woman in the world.”
He laughs, and kisses me, and I kiss him back, and when we break apart, his eyes are bright, and he swipes a tear from his cheek.
“Challenge accepted,” he says, cupping my face. “I’m never leaving you again.”
“That’s convenient, because I’m never letting you leave again.”
Finn leans in to kiss me, then smacks himself in the forehead, “Shit. I was supposed to do this part first.” He pulls out a folded paper from his back pocket and passes it over to me.
It’s a bunch of legal jargon in tiny font about rights and royalties. I look up, confused, “What is this?”
“I listed you as a co-writer, on all the songs you helped write for my new album. You’ll get a small payment up front, and nothing’s guaranteed, but if they sell half as well as my other songs, it’ll be more than enough to fund your project with the adopted families—”
I launch myself at him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and he staggers a bit, surprised, before he kisses me back with everything he has.
He’s perfect. Sarcastic, romantic, clever. Rockstar. Fallen angel. First love. Last love.
Husband.
Mine.
“So you’re taking my name after we get married, right?” I ask.
He laughs, “You can fight Bridget for it.”
I shudder, and he laughs harder.
“I think you could take her. I think you could take anyone you wanted to.”
Finn kisses me slowly, like we have all the time in the world. Which, I guess we do. So we touch and caress and taste each other, until my lips are swollen, and he’s hard as a rock.
Finn groans, then laughs. He sets me down, and holds out his hand. “Come on, Charlie. I need breakfast, we need to tell our families, and I need to fuck you senseless. Not necessarily in that order.”
So I take his hand, and we do.
Just not necessarily in that order.
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Famously Fake: A Billionaire Boss Romance
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Also by Roxy Reid
FAMOUSLY FAKE: A Billionaire Boss Romance
I’m fake engaged to my movie star boss.
He’s a billionaire single dad with a secret.
Now we’re play acting the Perfect Hollywood Couple.
He can’t know I’m falling for him.
I know it’s just pretend.
But all those delicious kisses feel soooo real.
His divine body sets my panties on fire.
Is he the perfect man to take my v-card?
Everywhere we turn there’s damn paparazzi.
If the truth comes out we’re both ruined.
But what happens once the faking stops?
Am I gonna regret letting the hottest guy in Hollywood be my first?
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Fake Fiancé Agreement
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FAKE FIANCÉ AGREEMENT
I’m Bethany’s boss.
I should have known better…
But she’s the sharpest, hottest woman I’ve ever known.
My jealous ex-wife is threatening to take my kid away.
I’ll do anything to keep my daughter.
Even pretend to be engaged.
I accidentally blurt out that Bethany is my fiancée.
Not my smartest move I’ll admit.
But she’s agreed to go along with it.
Can a fake engag
ement lead to real love?
The clock is ticking…
Soon we’ll be forced to choose - marry or part forever.
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