The dancers blew out the candles and it seemed as if the entire arena took a sharp breath before bursting into raw applause. The room lurched around Bran as people rose from their seats. But he couldn’t move. Because on live. National. Television. Nelle had trolled the hell out of him.
Take me home was a challenge.
She was that bold. She was that fearless.
She was indescribably sensational and provocative and inspiring.
And he wished he could be backstage, part of her inner circle when the throngs of people cleared. When the dressing room door closed and the tight embraces began, the fiercest whispers of triumph, the I knew you woulds.
But Aya was right. He couldn’t be seen with her. Not to protect their secret, but to protect her night. He wouldn’t risk a headline like Prom King and Meme overshadowing the success of her performance. Tonight Nelle had proved herself iconic. And he’d keep his distance to ensure nothing detracted from that.
He’d need to get to her after. Alone. At home. All he had to do was win.
Chapter Twenty
“You killed it. You absolutely murdered everyone in that room, and at home, and the people who are planning to wake up tomorrow and watch highlights on their phones before breakfast—they never will.”
Nelle held the emerald bow to her chest, listening to Benj with her mouth open. “Yeah, it doesn’t sound like a good thing when you say it like that.”
“Well. They’re dead. They’re all dead. Zombies, walking around, because you snatched their souls from their bodies.” Benj raised her eyebrows, waiting for Nelle’s reply.
“I came for them.”
Benj grinned, pulling the zipper up Nelle’s side. “They should have known to run.”
Nelle smoothed her hands down her torso. “I may need to disappear later.”
“Where to?”
It was Nelle’s turn to raise her eyebrows.
“How are you going to get there?”
“I’m bringing Albi into the circle of trust. Would you stay in my hotel room and tell people I’m with you?”
Benj tapped the excess powder off a brush. “I’d have to order a lot of room service. I mean a lot. For anyone to believe you were there.”
Wrapping her arms around her friend, Nelle said, “You’re the most perfect person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen a picture of you with Dolly Parton.”
“I said what I said.”
Mina was waiting outside the dressing room when Nelle emerged in the velvet gown, after taking a very loud, very enthusiastic call from her parents. They weren’t here but they were happy, and she was grateful for that. “Let’s get you back to your seat for the last few awards. Give them a chance to cut to you.”
“Have they done Notable Song?” Nelle asked, ignoring Benj’s sudden coughing fit beside her.
“Not yet.” Mina stared at her for a moment and Nelle held her breath until her manager reached out and picked lint off the top of her dress. “You didn’t rehearse that lyric change.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Nelle lied. She hadn’t planned to do it until she’d been standing onstage in the dark, waiting for the lights to kick on, wanting Bran to know he had better make the universe heel.
It was a little reckless. But what wasn’t reckless about being Bran Kelly’s secret wife?
Besides, no one would know what she really meant but him. And she felt mighty, like the impact of her steps still sent ripples of light in every direction, even offstage. Making her way back to the audience, Nelle absorbed all the extra glances that came her way.
Santino pretended to faint when she reclaimed the seat next to him. He righted himself, and cupped a hand around her ear. “I’m hosting an after-party, sponsored by my buddy’s tequila company. It’s the one to be at.”
“Sounds like a time,” Nelle said.
If Bran won, the attention on them both wouldn’t make it easy to get away later. People would be looking for her. But they’d be looking for her less if they were blind drunk on free tequila. And there was no way Bran would be at Santino’s party—he’d head for the hotel scene where big-name record companies set up champagne towers. If they were doing this, she had to consider things like that.
The rest of it was out of her hands.
By the time the three final awards of the night arrived, Nelle was antsy, too edgy from her performance to sit still. Three rows ahead, Bran sat up straighter in his chair as his name was read among the nominees for Notable Song.
Was she really going to let the name in that envelope decide whether she risked being caught in order to fuck Bran Kelly tonight? Nelle drew her ankles together, the tendons of her calves pulling tight. She would let the envelope decide. Only because she knew what was in it.
Nelle bit her lip to keep from mouthing along with the announcer, “Touch Her Back,” Bran Kelly.
In front of her, Bran turned his head, revealing his profile, and she choked in anticipation of him turning towards her, but instead he landed a kiss on Aya’s cheek and rose.
That should be me. The thought emerged from her gut, unbidden but true. She would have held his face in her hands and kissed him back. If she’d been closer, he would have climbed that stage with his hair in complete disarray, raked by her fingers. Smudges from her painted lips visible on his cheeks for the world to see. She would have forgotten it all in the rising swell of her heart—the pride in this moment, this man being recognized so deservedly. And relief—the proof that their plans were supported by cosmic powers.
She should have tried to divert her gaze, stopped staring at him so openly. But the Bran Kelly that turned towards that audience, Cleffy in hand, was at one hundred. He was pure, solid-gold confidence. He was an eclipse. They’d all be blind but who could look away?
“Wow,” Bran said. His cheek twitched with a private memory and Nelle swayed forward. “I should be able to do better than wow. Thank you.” He looked up, taking his gaze to the top seats, to the fans, talking to them. “Thank you so much. Tonight just keeps getting better.” He adjusted his grip on the award. “A year ago I thought I’d finished an album. And then I came here, to the Note Awards, to this room filled with all your talent. Guess I took a pocketful home because I spent that night writing one last song—the whole thing poured out in a couple of hours. And then the album wasn’t just done. It was complete. And a year later I get to share this moment with you. You inspired me. You made this possible.” Bran paused and Nelle willed him to look at her. Slowly, his eyes slid down the rows of his peers and stopped at Nelle, holding her gaze as he finished. “This one’s for you.”
The music kicked up and Bran broke their eye contact to exit stage left. A tribute started playing and Nelle sank back into the shadows, her heart racing along with her thoughts.
He was teasing her again, saying he’d won for her, that he’d done it to get her home tonight. But Bran Kelly loved a double meaning. And images swirled behind her eyes, flashes of last year’s show: the scooped back of her dress, the pocketful of her phone number Bran had taken home. And the lyric that called her out: Because she started it.
Suddenly Nelle became hyperaware of everything around her, her vision sharp and her mind clear. She had been sure of so many things tonight, and now she had one more to add to her list.
Bran Kelly had written “Touch Her Back” about Nelle.
Chapter Twenty-One
When Bran left the house that afternoon, he couldn’t have imagined a more perfect way to return. Stumbling out of the hired car, he hadn’t had to wonder if Nelle had followed through on their deal. Light beamed through the slitted front windows like lens flares in an action movie.
He took the stairs two at a time until he slammed sideways into the cement banister. Then he adjusted his pace, to make sure he got into the house in one piece. Sauntering through the ha
ll, he reached the opening to the kitchen and stopped, needing time to adjust to the ambush of sensation his brain was trying to process.
Van Morrison blared through his house speakers—Van Morrison, a musician who knew what it was like to have a performance crisis. Bran put a hand to the wall in solidarity.
And for stability.
In front of the stove, Nelle was shaking her hips, her dark curls damp, the ripped neck of one of his oldest shirts slipping off one shoulder.
Something smelled incredible. At first she was too busy stirring it and singing along to the song to notice him staring. But then she turned and screamed. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Jesus! I thought you were a burglar!”
“Not a burglar,” he told her, taking a step into the room.
The light blue tee was worn so thin he could see straight through the peeling slogan (I Survived the Chicago Blizzard of ’67). He’d never buy a new shirt again. He was hypnotized by the deep breaths she took, the dark points of her nipples through the soft fabric. He only raised his eyes when she cut off his view, folding her arms over herself. Her freckles were back. He hadn’t realized how much he missed seeing them all day. But they’d always been there, constellations that didn’t come out until daylight had faded.
He fumbled for a pen on the buffet, and then the receipt next to it. After scribbling something inane about daytime stars, Bran crumpled the paper. Now wasn’t the time. He was in no frame of mind for lyrical genius. The last song he’d written had been easy and perfect—the proof of it earning him this night. He shifted his focus back to Nelle, moving into the kitchen half of the room.
“You showered. And you’re cooking. How long have you been here?”
“Since eleven.” She pointed a wooden spoon at him, red sauce spattering on the cement island. “You kept me waiting.”
“I texted you.”
“No, you didn’t. For a month you didn’t.”
“I thought that was what you wanted. But I texted tonight. I said midnight.” He groped for the phone in his pocket but the icons on his home screen were too blurry to be of use.
“I didn’t get it. Came home to a dark house. My driver almost wouldn’t leave me here because he said places this remote are easy targets. Especially on big nights like this—when everyone’s out late at parties.”
“The only valuable things I own are in the watch safe.” He paused to think. “And my guitar case.”
She had found a deep baking dish and was layering food into it.
“What are you making?”
“A very rustic moussaka.” She reached for a third pan and poured a thick white sauce over the other layers. Unlike the last time she’d cooked in his kitchen, everything she did seemed a little slow, and a lot sloppy. “I found some interesting things in your fridge.” A tasting spoon disappeared into her mouth and came out clean. “Milk, presumably for your stash of cereal, leftover mashed potatoes and tomato soup. And a wild bag of groceries.”
Her eyes hit him and Bran staggered through his next step, hanging on to the edge of the island for balance.
“Bran Kelly, you shopped. You shopped in preparation for my arrival.” She started making her way over to him, talking like she was thinking out loud. “I thought you forgot I was coming. I thought you didn’t care.”
She trusted the universe, she trusted a bartender, but she was determined to think the worst of him.
Nelle moved closer before he could respond. “But then I look in your fridge and—” she made a poof motion with her hand “—ground beef.”
“You like cheeseburgers.”
Nearer now. “An eggplant?”
Sentences weren’t forming in his brain. “For hummus. Crudités?”
“That’s not how eggplant works.”
Bran swallowed. He was hot under his jacket and the low-hanging pendant lights glaring off the polished surfaces.
She inched closer to him and her signature spice overwhelmed him—the one that smelled like home. “There was ground cinnamon in your fridge, Bran. I want to know why.”
“Is that not where it goes?”
Her head tilted back as she laughed and he caught her jaw between his hands. She exhaled a startled breath, the whites of her eyes showing.
“Sorry.” He gentled his touch to stroke her throat, her skin smooth like satin. “I’m a little drunk. This interrogation doesn’t seem fair.”
“What’s not fair? I’m a little drunk too.” She drew up on her tiptoes to nuzzle her nose against his. “Did you mean what you said?”
Her near-naked body rolled against his suit-clad one and he pulled out of his jacket, one arm at a time to keep hold of her, thrusting his fingers into the hair at the base of her neck when he was finished, keeping her face to his. “Remind me what I said.”
“You said a lot. That things made for girls matter, because girls matter.” Her lips brushed against his. “Did you say it just to get into my pants?”
She wasn’t wearing any pants. Bran closed his eyes, knowing his answer had to make sense. “I said it to show you that I’m listening. I hear you. What you say matters to me.”
Under his fingertips, a sharp sigh tangled in her throat. “And the other speech? You meant you wrote this year’s Notable Song about me?”
Hearing her say it was too much. Bran was done answering questions, done waiting, done doing anything that wasn’t kissing Nelle. Her mouth opened to him the instant his lips pressed against hers. Her tongue crashed against his in searing, rapid passes.
She pulled back, spinning in his arms, the shirt twisting about her hips under his hands. Raising up to reveal her bare butt. Nelle leaned into the counter and Bran fit himself behind her. “And in between—you said you’d do things to me you’d never done before.”
“I meant that.” He thickened at the idea, at her bending forward and pressing herself back. “If you want me to. If you like that.”
She looked back at him, her eyes a little glazed, her mouth a little parted. Nelle, not quite together, not knowing her own mind, wasn’t something he was used to. “I don’t know if I like that. I haven’t—I’ve never done that. Doesn’t it hurt?”
“It’s tight. Um. We’d go slow. It might.”
Nelle turned again, and he pressed the solid length of his dick into the seam of her butt, testing the position through his clothes. Her back arched. “But then it feels good?”
He barely got the promise out. “So fucking good.”
She lowered herself to her elbows on the counter and shook her head. “It’s so dirty.”
“It’s not, it’s—”
Nelle laughed. She pushed herself back up on one palm and gestured to the mess of pots she’d abandoned on the other side of the island. “No, I mean, it’s so dirty.”
The dishes? How was she thinking about the dishes?
Bran groaned. He finally had Nelle bent over this island. She was pinned between his legs, a little drunk, and asking about getting a dick in her ass. And if she was distracted by the dirty pans it meant she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t ready. Bottom line: she wasn’t comfortable.
He eased back, strengthened his resolve, and pried his hands off the edge of the counter. Stiff steps took him around the island, but he made it.
“What are you doing?” Nelle asked, her bottom lip pushing out in a pout.
Bran grabbed two of the pots, turning to the sink. The rush of water echoed inside the metal as Bran braced himself on the ledge.
Behind him was Nelle. Ass up. Pouting.
He locked his knees and focused on the filling pans, then rolled his shoulders back and turned to collect the rest. Her breasts pillowed against the cement and she held her chin up with the heels of her palms.
Bran smiled through the throb of need. “It’s basic marriage rules. You cook, I clean.”
Chapter Twenty-Two<
br />
Nelle had felt loose. Loose like dancing without choreography. Loose like everything just came naturally and she didn’t have to think about anything she was doing. She just had to do it.
Nelle had felt loose.
And now she felt tight, the kind of tight that made her aware of all the places inside her that had been left unfulfilled.
Bran had been pushed up against her, his heat at her back contrasting with the cold cement that seeped through her shirt. Bran had been talking, about how good it would feel to fit himself inside her. Bran had been making a good case. And then she’d opened her mouth about the dishes and now he was over there, doing them instead.
He lifted the casserole dish of moussaka she’d prepped while waiting for him to come home. His brows raised in a question.
She waved a hand at the fridge. “We can bake it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. That was when they should be doing this domestic shit. Tonight should be for celebrating. For getting loose and staying that way. They only had one night at a time.
With a wet sponge, Bran wiped down the counter, concentric circles growing wider with each swipe.
He had been the one who’d said it. He’d come up with the idea of doing something new. Something they’d never done before. Something had stopped him. She hadn’t said no.
His shirtsleeves were rolled and when he stretched for a final pass, slipping his hand between her elbows, she grabbed his arm.
She hadn’t said yes either.
Thumbing the ridged vein that pushed out of his forearm, she asked, “You done?”
“I was just—”
Her grip tightened until he dropped the sponge. “You were giving me a moment to reconsider.” His eyes tracked her tongue as she wet her bottom lip. Bran paid attention to her. She’d been so wrong. He hadn’t forgotten about her last night. He hadn’t texted because she’d said no contact. He’d been doing what she’d asked. He’d stocked his fridge. As surprised as she was to find ground cinnamon in there—because what? why?—it made it easy to trust that the things he did were for her. “I’ve considered. Now come back over here and tell me how we do this.”
All the Best Nights Page 18