I clenched my hands, inhaled a calming breath. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”
“No.” His lips flattened. “It is.”
“Lawson.”
“It has its perks, sure, but when I’m attempting to do regular, human things like buy food or put gas in the truck…”
“Or visit some chick’s dad in prison.”
“You’re not just some chick, Harper.” He glanced at me, his expression fierce. “Get that out of your head. Please.”
A few heavy heartbeats passed, and I blew out a breath. The way he looked at me made me want things that weren’t part of the plan. Blurred everything else into a barely discernable mist: college, my dad, the fact I soon might not have a place to live. Lawson looked at me and I saw his soul. I saw depth and beauty and myself reflected in a way I liked.
I liked me when I was with him.
“I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you planned,” he said. “Sorry if I played a part in that, too. Honestly, the thought that it might go badly, that people might recognize me, didn’t even cross my mind. Naïve, maybe, but there it is. Lawson Naïve-as-Hell Hill.”
“Ugh.” I stared at the truck ceiling. “Why can’t I have a normal boyfriend?” I said, quoting Helen Hunt in As Good As It Gets. I let my gaze wander to Lawson and was pleased to see a smile ticking the corner of his mouth. “You know it was the hat, right?”
His smile widened so that the corner of his eye crinkled. I loved that. “Did you see the death glares I was getting? Man. Is there really that much LSU hate all the way up here?”
“I mean, we lost a national championship to them in ’08 and they’re still gloating. Kinda burns, you know?”
“Uh huh.” The grip he had on the steering wheel made his muscles flex from forearm to bicep and I found myself loving that about him, too. The little things that made him. The mix of colors in his lashes that weren’t just blond but about twenty different shades of blond and brown. A freckle on the column of his neck that I wanted to kiss. The shadow beneath his jaw.
“You’re not naïve, by the way.”
Side-glance. “No?”
I shook my head. “You just see the best in everybody.”
We were closing in on week three in Ohio.
Almost three weeks and Dad refused to see me. He’d pled not guilty, elected to have the court appoint him an attorney, remained in jail because he couldn’t make the fifty-thousand-dollar bond. Facts anyone could find on the court’s public website. I’d attempted two more visits, both with Lawson waiting outside, both ending in me turned away by an officer with apologies in his eyes. Apologies that gave me nothing but more unanswered questions.
There was no one I could call and talk to. No one I wanted to talk to, not about this. The teachers Dad used to work with? The paltry handful of friends I’d left behind when Dad had gotten the job in Nashville? All were either on summer vacation or readying for college and just…no. I couldn’t. How would I even lead into that conversation? Hey, remember me? So, my dad’s been accused of having sex with a student. Any idea if it’s true? And it it’s true, who it is?
No, thank you.
After the third and, I’d decided, final trip to the prison, Lawson didn’t drive back to the townhouse. At least, not immediately. I wanted to. I needed him. Emotions had wrung me dry, my heart was bleeding, and I wanted to feel him filling me. Replenishing all I’d lost in the span of a few long weeks. He wiped away the pain with his kisses, purged the rejection with his body.
But he detoured that day, because he was Lawson and unpredictable at the oddest moments.
“Think they’ve got ice cream in here?” He wrapped an arm around me as we walked toward the mall entrance. It was a weekday, the parking lot not as packed as it would be on Saturday or Sunday. Maybe it’d be okay. “Ice cream makes everything better.”
“That sounds like a line out of a rom-com.” I was trying to be cheerful. I really was. Tough when the only family you had left in the world crapped out on you. “Are you made up of nothing but lines? Movie lines, lyric lines, pickup lines?”
“Have I told you your eyes are bluer than the Adriatic? And I sure don’t mind bein’ lost at sea.”
That yanked a genuine laugh out of me. “Stop it!”
He kissed my cheek. “Am I made up of nothing but lines. You are somethin’ else, woman.”
“Hey, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” I was already feeling better, lighter. Lawson’s warm personality wrapped around me, followed by an instant rush of gratitude. For him, for all he’d done. For being with me, when a million other places were probably much more appealing. For being a friend, a shoulder, a sanctuary in a time when every move I made felt like I was hitting a large brick wall.
He opened the door and waved me inside like a coachman bowing to a duchess. “After you, madam.”
“Why, thank you!” I attempted a curtsy, which wasn’t a curtsy at all, regardless of how many times I’d watched Pride and Prejudice. “So very nice of you.”
“That’s me. Mr. Nice Guy.”
Sensing the self-deprecation in his tone, I laced my fingers with his, pulled him close. “Hey, I like my Mr. Nice Guy, thank you very much.” I stood tiptoe, kissed his lips, and he inhaled sharply. Pressing my forehead to his, our noses brushing, I whispered, “So, don’t make fun him or you’ll have me to deal with. Got it?”
“Got it,” he whispered back and stole another kiss. “Now, seriously. Ice cream.”
“I think it’s this way.”
Twenty minutes later, we sat at a small round table in the food court, he with his mint chocolate chip and me with my go-to butter pecan.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I said after a moment.
He paused, mid-bite. “What? Mint chocolate chip? It’s the best ice cream in the world.”
“Uh, no it’s not. Besides, I’m surprised you can even eat that, when you tasted, like, six different ones before making a choice.”
“Five.” He pointed his spoon at me. “Don’t judge.”
“But I meant the stage. At the awards show? Singing in front of all those people. Not just fans, but your peers. Like, people who do what you do.”
“Yeah.” He took a bite. “It sucks.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.”
I shoved his arm and he laughed. “Come on, seriously. I can see why you might get a little comparison syndrome, not that anyone could compare.”
“You’ve never had to do anything in front of your peers?”
“Sure, yeah, but not like you.” Not like bearing your soul to thousands.
Lawson set down his bowl. “Okay, shoot. When was the last time?”
I swirled my spoon around a pecan chunk. “Valedictorian speech.”
“Ah, wow.” He sat back in his chair. Rubbed his upper lip. “I’ll bet that was something.”
“Almost unbearable, actually. I’d never felt so nervous. Being judged for something I wrote?” I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
“But when you’re an attorney, you’ll write legal briefs. You’ll have to go to court, stand in front of a judge, argue with other attorneys in front of juries. Right? Or is that just on television?”
“No, it’s real and, yeah, I’m aware of all that. It’s just…hard for me. Being in front of people? Everyone staring, waiting for you to screw up.”
“You can’t look at it that way, Harper. If you get too much in your own head, instead of enjoying the moment, well…that’s just a recipe for disaster.”
“Experience?” I licked a glob of caramel off my spoon and felt my thighs tingle when he found sudden fascination with my mouth. “As an artist, I’d think it would be hard not to be in your own head all the time.”
“It’s pretty much where I live, that’s true enough.” He folded his hands on the table. “When I go on stage, I tell myself there’s no one out there, nobody cares what I say or do. It’s just me doing my thing, for me and no one else. It’s the o
nly way I get through.”
“Wow, that’s…kind of poetic.”
“I don’t know about poetic. Coping, maybe. Hey, you hear that?” He straightened, gaze scanning the food court. Head canted like a curious bird, listening.
I did hear it. An acoustic guitar, a male’s voice gliding on the air. “Musicians used to set up in the center sometimes and play for the shoppers, accepting tips in open instrument cases. I’m sure you’re familiar with the street players or, in this case, mall players.”
“Yeah.” He got up, tossed his empty bowl in the closest receptacle. “That used to be me. Come on, Columbus. Let’s check it out.”
Hand in hand, we walked-ran toward the heart of the mall. I couldn’t believe how excited he was, how eager. He was a country music superstar, had performed for sold-out stadiums across the world, written songs that’d spent weeks in the top ten, not just for himself but for other artists. And a hometown musician who probably spent most of his time in malls, bars and street corners was who got his heart racing?
I didn’t know whether to be happy or jealous.
A decent crowd had gathered, and Lawson shouldered us past countless bodies until we were face to face with the artist standing alone with his guitar. He looked like a nineties grunge star. A pre-fame Chris Cornell with his worn jeans, Doc Martens and plain white tee. His voice was gruff, raspy, like a male Amy Winehouse. And he was singing one of Lawson’s songs, a ballad from Fever Dreams that’d never hit the radio.
Warmth rushed through my skin and I squeezed Lawson’s arm. “You should go up there,” I whispered close to his ear, but he shook his head.
“I’m not taking this moment from him.” He was recording the guy with his phone, his expression one of utter enthrallment.
Was I surprised? No. He’d done the exact same for Christina Rose the night her guitar player bailed. Stayed back in the shadows, zero desire for recognition.
But this, to me, was different. This was someone who’d likely never jammed with a signed artist. The song ended, and the musician opened his eyes, stared directly at Lawson. His face split into a huge smile, one I had a feeling would be on album covers someday.
Leaning into the microphone, he said, “Mr. Hill, is that you?”
The crowd’s attention turned. Women gasped. Children cheered. Men began murmuring amongst themselves.
Lawson’s grip on my hand tightened, then loosened, and he reached his hand out to the artist, who instantly stepped out from behind the mic stand and shook it firmly.
“Great rendition of Fallin’,” said Lawson as the crowd whispered around us. “Better than my original.”
“No way, man, are you serious? That’s an awesome song. I dig all your stuff, especially the B-sides. Learned more than a few riffs from stopping, rewinding and playing your music over and over.”
“Yeah?” Lawson’s smile couldn’t have been any bigger. He was practically glowing. “Well, I see you’ve got an extra guitar there.” He pointed to a mahogany acoustic on a stand next to an amp. “Do you mind if I…?”
“Hell, no, I don’t mind! Please, help yourself.” The artist’s hands were shaking as he raked one through his shoulder-length hair. “It’s not the greatest. I bought it secondhand and—”
“Dude, are you kidding?” Lawson strapped on the guitar, retrieved a pick from his back pocket. I found those things everywhere: the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom. “This is awesome. You familiar with Delirium?” He strummed a chord, adjusted the tuning pegs. Strummed another.
“Yeah, yeah. Absolutely. You take the lead.”
Their blended voices mesmerized the crowd. They were magic together, smooth and confident, as if they’d been performing as a duo for years. Before they agreed upon another song, piles of ones, fives, tens and a few twenties covered the red velvet lined guitar case. Everyone clapped and sang along, and the crowd had begun to thicken. My face was tight from smiling. I couldn’t help myself. The day had turned from bad to worse so fast and now this?
My phone buzzed and I backed away, moved far enough from the crush and the music to answer.
It was Katie.
“Hey.” I plugged my other ear with an index finger. “Sorry, were you trying to call Lawson?”
“Yes, but really, I need to talk to you, too. I’ve got news, Harper, and it’s not good, okay? Listen to me. You and Lawson need to get back to Nashville, ASAP. I’ll book the flight, close out your stay at the townhouse, call an Uber to the airport and secure a couple of security guards—”
“Wait, wait.” She was talking so fast, and my heart strained to keep rhythm. “Slow down, Katie. What’s going on? Why do we—”
“Have you not checked the internet lately?” she interrupted—no, demanded. “I mean, have both of you been living in a cave for the last couple of days? Or just under the bed sheets?”
Flushed, I said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Sorry, Harper, that was tacky. But the news about your father? It’s everywhere.”
“Wait. What?” Dad was accused of a terrible crime, sure, but the alleged wrong happened on a pin in a big, big map. Hardly world news. “How?”
“Sister, allow me to tell you a little bit about Lawson Hill stans. They see a mystery chick on his arm in Vegas. Research ensues. Research that’d make an FBI agent wince in envy. Didn’t take long for them to figure out who you were, background, family history, likes, dislikes, favorite color, foods and that you prefer dark roast to breakfast blend.”
I did prefer dark roast to breakfast blend. Why drink dirty water when you could have coffee? But then it hit me what she was saying. If Lawson’s fans—or stans, as Katie called them, discovered who I was, then it wouldn’t take a genius to trace my name to my dad’s name to an inmate search on Franklin County Sheriff’s website.
My stomach turned inside out. I felt queasy. Pulled as if weights had been attached to my ankles before being thrown into the ocean. Sinking. Helpless.
“I’m so sorry, Katie.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Harper. Just get Lawson Hill back to Nashville. Now.”
chapter twenty-one
Katie hadn’t overexaggerated. The internet was sprawling with news stories about Dad’s indiscretion. Alongside them were the headlines declaring Lawson Hill’s mystery-date to the Vegas awards ceremony as the daughter of a sexual predator.
Social media lit up in a wildfire rage of people either defending or cancelling Lawson. There were no in-betweens. No one willing to see both sides. Some pleaded that children shouldn’t be blamed for the sins of their fathers, while others declared Lawson just as bad as the criminal dad for staying with me.
I was mortified.
No, mortified wasn’t the word. In fact, I didn’t think the right word existed for what I felt. Stupid. Cheap. Responsible, even though I wasn’t. Reality—my reality had gone from normal to devastating in less time than it took a ref to throw a penalty flag. That’s what this felt like. A penalty on every step I’d taken since we’d moved to Nashville. A penalty on happiness, because I had been happy. Maybe too happy.
To make it worse, Lawson shrugged off the media’s reaction like a piece of lint. Moved forward, carried on as if nothing had happened. As if they were writing great things about him, instead of murdering the good name he’d worked hard for.
His kindness didn’t break.
His attentiveness didn’t falter.
His smile was still intact.
“You want a sandwich or something?” he asked one afternoon.
I sat curled up to the end of the couch in his music room, listening to the rain hitting the roof and the windows. Savana had just left. Chris, too. They’d offered to check on the house. I couldn’t go back, even though I needed to. Dad was still there. Maybe not physically, but he’d walked through every room. His clothes were in the closet, his toiletries in the shower, the mug he liked in the strainer. I’d given Sava
na the keys, thanked her a dozen times, regardless she’d told me not to.
“Don’t sweat it,” she’d said, but I could hear it in her voice. Judgment. Disappointment. That she’d introduced me to Lawson. Worse, that we’d hit it off, gotten close, and now he was paying the price for my family drama.
“Harper?” Lawson moved further into the room, rubbed his hands together. Freshly showered and shaven, he looked comfortable in his black cotton v-neck and sweatpants. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.” I tucked my legs closer to my body, wishing I could crawl into a ball, hide my head and fade into a state of hibernation. Anything to avoid dealing with what I knew I’d eventually have to deal with. Only, I didn’t know how. There were no answers, only questions.
Lawson slid his hands inside his pockets. His biceps and forearms were tight from an early morning workout session with his personal trainer. “I won’t let you starve yourself.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“Then what are you doing?” He sat down beside me, so close his thigh pushed up against my shins. His stare was devastating, especially since I wanted him to be angry. Wanted him to yell, throw things, rage for the loss of his reputation.
“Brooding.”
This made him smile in amusement. “Do women brood?”
“Sometimes.”
“Okay. Can you eat while you’re brooding? A sandwich? A bowl of soup?” He waggled his brows. “Cake?”
Savana had brought over a gorgeous three-layer Italian cream cake as a congratulations to Lawson’s performance on the awards show. His favorite, she’d said, placing the box on the kitchen counter, and then made him promise he’d pace himself. Cake wasn’t on a superstar’s diet plan.
“I’m thinking about leaving early for England.”
I released a shaky breath. Better to get it out now, spare both of us, allow his team to repair the damage.
His brows bent. “Harper.”
“I emailed Cambridge’s accommodations department and they said, given the circumstances, they can arrange for an early move-in.” Tears blurred my vision and I sniffed. “I can’t stay and allow this to happen to you, Lawson.”
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