by Shandi Boyes
When his glare becomes too much for me to bear, I shimmy down the mattress until my eyes are level with his tattoo. Seeing firsthand how much he’s already lost in his short life has the words I don’t want to speak stumbling out. “When I saw the box, I thought maybe there was something different inside.”
I wait for him to respond.
It’s a long-ass thirty seconds.
Sheepishly, I lift my head off his chest. The narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils I expect to see aren’t there. He’s smiling—broadly.
“How long?” He cocks his brow, his heart rate picking up. “How long have you known about the ring in my wallet?”
I bite my lower lip, acting coy. He doesn’t buy my act. He knows I’m the world’s biggest snoop. Even as a kid, I snuck peeks at the presents my mom thought she hid around the house.
“A few months.” I hide my flushed cheeks in his chest, mortified.
“You little snoop.”
I stiffen when he tickles my ribs. There’s nothing I hate more than being tickled. If you're the youngest in your family, you’ll understand. Dominic and Aiden always ganged up on me. One would hold me down, while the other tickled me until I wet my pants. I still hate them for it, and Noah knows that.
“Noah, don’t!” With a squeal, I maneuver away from his torturous hands. It does little to stop his onslaught.
“Stop!” I scream louder this time, my legs kicking out to emphasize my statement.
“Fuck!” Noah grabs ahold of his crotch before curling into a ball. His face fills with pain as his eyes clamp shut. I’ve hurt him—bad.
“I’m so sorry.”
He might believe my apology if I weren’t giggling. I should feel bad I’ve kneed him in the balls, but part of me thinks he got what he deserved. He tickled me even knowing I hate it. Karma works in mysterious ways.
When he stays down for longer than predicted, I grow worried I’ve really hurt him. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to whack you in the nuts; I just got a little flustered.” I rub his back in a circular motion, soothing him like he usually does me when I’m upset.
After several long heartbeats, the redness on his face recedes, and his eyes open. “Jesus, Em, you weren’t joking when you said you hate being tickled.” His words are rickety, still laced with pain.
“I’m sorry—truly.” I add to my apology by pressing my lips to his. He wants a more sincere request for forgiveness. With his hand woven through my hair, he takes control of our embrace. He whips his tongue along my lips, wetting the dryness my panicked breaths caused, before delving inside my mouth. He kisses me until I’m breathless.
Pulling back from our embrace, I stare into his dark eyes. Warmth spreads across my chest when I notice how peaceful he seems. I’ve never seen him so down to earth and happy. I’m glad he’s finally found some peace in the world. He was dealt a rough hand, and I’m doing everything in my power to fix. No one should go through the pain he has — not even a monster.
I gaze into his eyes, my love unmissable. “I love you.”
Projecting how deeply I care for him with three little words doesn’t feel adequate, but they're all I have, so they’re what I use.
Noah smiles, flashing his gorgeous dimples. “I love you too, Beautiful.”
His lips brace my temple before climbing out of bed. A groan rumbles in my chest when he bobs down to snag his wallet out of his jeans. His backside... hot enough to cook an egg on.
My heart stops beating when the quickest shimmer of gold catches my eye. He’s removed the ring from his wallet to clutch it tightly in his hand. “No, Noah.”
I shake my head as my eyes seek his. I don’t want him to ask me to marry him now. I want him to do it when he feels the time is right, not because I expected a different gift Christmas morning.
Pretending he can’t see my rapidly shaking head, Noah slides back into the bed, then rolls onto his hip. He lies so close to me, our chests compete with every breath we take. Although the sentiment in the air is heavy, I’ll never forgive myself if he proposes because he feels forced.
“Don’t propose until you're ready—”
“I’ve known since our very first date that you’d be the girl I'd marry one day. I purchased this ring before I booked our hotel room.”
His confession utterly blindsides me. In a good way, but I’m still shocked all the same.
“I had planned to ask you after the band performed for the music execs, because I knew even if I had failed that night, I'd still have the brightest future with you. It doesn’t matter if I sell a million records or work in a suit nine to five, all that matters is that you’re at my side while doing it. I love you, Emily; I always have, and I always will, so will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
My heart beats wildly as I struggle to compile a response. It isn’t that I don’t want to say yes. I’ve practiced screaming that exact word for months. I just want to make sure he's proposing because he wants to, not because I snooped.
When my delay fills Noah’s eyes with panic, I realize he only asked because he wanted to, freeing me to say, “Yes, Noah, I would be honored to be your wife.”
With a dimpled grin, he slips the ring he’s clutching for dear life onto my finger. “This ring is temporary. I’ve been waiting to propose until I could get you a nicer one, but it’ll do for now.”
I shoo away his suggestion, my eyes watering as I take in the sparkling diamond on my hand. “I love it. It's perfect just as it is.”
It’s a beautiful ring. The infinity symbols on each side represent how long our love will last, and the diamond reveals that no matter how insignificant something seems, in the right eyes, it’s priceless.
I stop gawking at my ring when Noah says, “I love you, soon-to-be Mrs. Emily Taylor,” before sealing his mouth over mine.
Unlike me, he has no qualms expressing himself. He pours his heart and soul into our kiss, articulating his love without the three little words I always use. It’s a knee-buckling kiss that sees us breaking more than my no-sex rule in my mother’s house... We also break my bed.
Chapter 26
Noah
After six tireless months, we’ve finally achieved the seemingly unachievable. Our album is done! It took longer to wrap up than anticipated, but budget restraints meant we didn’t have as much time in the studio as we needed. Delays were inevitable. The reward far outweighs the agony, though. I’m not being showy when I say our debut album is a fucking masterpiece. I cannot wait to share it with our fans.
Next week will be huge for Rise Up. Just reaching this stage has our excitement hitting peaks never reached before. We can barely contain ourselves as we wait to be called into the boardroom at Destiny Records’ head office. The meeting we have scheduled today will be life-altering. I can’t explain it any more simply than that.
Electricity infuses the air when Cormack pops his head out of the boardroom. “Come on in.”
His smile says it all. He’s just as excited as us. After clearing the sweat from my palms with my jeans, I nudge my head to my band members, gesturing for them to enter before me.
“Boys, this is Delilah Winterbottom.” Cormack introduces us to a lady with jet black hair cut in a fierce bob. “Delilah, this is Marcus, Slater, and Nick.”
The boys shake Delilah’s hand in greeting before taking a seat around the boardroom table, leaving me with the final introduction.
“And this is Noah Taylor, lead singer of Rise Up.”
My chest swells with smugness at the pride in Cormack’s voice, but not for long. Delilah’s narrowed eyes are already off-putting, much less the snarl she gives before accepting my hand. If first impressions are anything to go by, she'll be a real ball breaker.
Remembering Marcus’s pledge to play nice, I mumble, “Nice to meet you,” before sliding into the empty chair next to Slater, who’s gorging down sandwiches like he’s never been fed.
Cormack has gone all out for our meeting. There’s an impressive spread of sand
wiches and cakes in the middle of the table, and the half dozen cans of soda the boys haven’t demolished already are to their right.
Just like every other meeting we’ve had the past eleven months, Cormack and Delilah sit opposite of the band. I don’t know if they’re doing it on purpose, but I take offense to this arrangement. It’s like they’re pompously stating they're in charge of the game, and we're little pawns they use to play.
With introductions out of the way, Cormack gets straight down to business. I appreciate that about him. I hate weaving through the trivial shit. “Delilah will be responsible for all of Rise Up’s public relation matters—”
“What do you mean ‘public relations’?” Slater asks with a mouth full of food.
I shake my head when he takes another bite of his sandwich, not the least bit concerned that he’s talking with a mouthful of food. I swear the fucker doesn’t have any manners.
Slater’s throat struggles to swallow his sandwich when Delilah glares at him. “It means I handle all media on behalf of the band. I’ll be in charge of organizing radio and television interviews, and my articles will be printed in publications around the world.” She straightens her spine as her jaw grows taut. “I’ll also be responsible for the band's image.”
“Image?” Marcus scoots to the edge of his chair, his brows furled. “As in, how we’re perceived by the public? Or what we wear?”
Cormack swivels his chair to face Marcus. “Both. Her role will encompass what clothes you wear at events to how the public perceives you."
My head slants to the side as confusion stirs in my gut. The image presented before me now—the guys chowing down on sandwiches and slurping on soda—proves a little help in public etiquette would be helpful, but I don’t want to change who we are because we got a record deal. The fans love us because of our music, not how we look.
Moving matters along, Delilah discloses, “We’ll be marketing your album to audiences in the thirteen to thirty-five demographic.”
When her squinted eyes swing my way, I sink into my chair, wondering what the fuck I did wrong. The demographic she's aiming for sounds spot on. Our fan’s average age is mid-twenties. We didn’t get a chance to tap into the younger market as anyone under twenty-one wasn’t allowed in Mavs. Potential older fans were too busy being parents or working, so nights out were a rarity, but that doesn’t mean they won’t buy our songs. I'm glad we're striving to reach new fans. The more people who hear our music, the better.
My eyes float up from the ground when Delilah pushes our meeting into a direction I wasn’t expecting. “Noah, I understand you became engaged over the holidays?”
I smile. The day Emily agreed to be my wife was the happiest day of my life. I cannot wait for us to wed on our second anniversary. As far as I’m concerned, it can’t come quick enough.
Taking my smile as confirmation, Delilah snarls, bearing teeth. “The band needs to be attainable to its fans, which means we cannot publicly announce that you’re engaged, let alone broadcast that you’re in a relationship.”
“What?” My mind is blank for a better reply. I’m truly shocked. How can being engaged affect the band’s album launch?
When I ask Delilah precisely that, her glare ramps up. She scowls so hard, wrinkles line her forehead. It’s the exact look my mother gives me any time I’m in her presence. Not once since Michael’s death has she looked at me without disgust on her face.
Anger sluices through my veins, overheating my already sticky skin. This woman doesn't know me, yet she already hates me. That’s fucked.
My annoyance reaches fever pitch when Delilah flattens her palms on the table and sneers, “It’s the fans who download songs, listen to them, and share them with their friends—not fiancées. Furthermore, when women hear a love ballad, they imagine they’re the woman in the song. If they learn you're engaged, that won’t happen, which in turn means they won’t download your song, fall in love with it, and dream of the day they’ll marry the man promising them a lifetime of happiness with lyrics designed to do exactly that.” She angles her head to the side, hoping it will hide her vindictive smirk. It doesn’t. Not at all. “That’s why whatever silly little thing you think you’re planning next year will not only remain a secret, it will not occur. Not on my watch.”
Spit flies out of her mouth like venom when she speaks, only magnifying my anger. “I’m not hiding Emily away!”
I’ll rip up our agreement before I’ll ever do that. We’ve already begun planning our wedding. It’s set in stone.
I glance around the table, seeking support. Slater and Marcus have stopped eating and are leaning low in their chairs. Their wide eyes drift between Delilah and me, but they don't appear eager to jump in to back me up. Nick is sitting on the edge of his chair. His brows are furrowed, and the tight hold of his jaw can’t conceal its tick, but he’s also mute, leaving the fight solely on my shoulders.
After huffing my annoyance at their lack of assistance, I turn my focus back to Delilah. Before I can tell her to row up a creek without a paddle, Cormack rejoins the conversation. “We’re not saying you have to break up with Emily. We just can’t have the public knowing you're in a relationship.”
He peers at me with nurturing eyes, begging me to calm down. He did the same thing numerous times during the production of our album, but those arguments were different. They were creative disagreements; they weren’t personal.
I’m interrupted from expressing my thoughts for the second time when one of my bandmates finally backs up my campaign. It’s the last person I expected, but I’m grateful all the same.
“This is bullshit. We don’t make music so immature idiots can daydream about marrying us. We do it because we're fucking good at it.” Nick stands from his chair to flatten his palms on the table. “You don’t pick who you love, so leave them alone!”
His outburst stuns me. He’s adamant he'll never fall in love, yet he's the only one defending my right to publicly declare who I love. I never thought I'd see the day. Nick, the world’s biggest player, is defending love. My eyes would get misty if I weren’t so pissed.
My chance to slap him on the back in congratulations is lost when Delilah roars, “This is not negotiable! You either agree to our terms or the record deal is off the table!”
Cormack drags his hand down his face when she storms out of the boardroom. He looks tired, but not enough to leash Delilah’s campaign for another day. “She could have put it across a little smoother, but her terms are nothing new in this industry. It’s a publicist’s job to let the public know what they want them to know. It doesn’t mean you love Emily any less. It’s just business, and our job...” He gestures his hand to the door Delilah just rocketed through. “...is to sell as many of your albums as we can.”
I understand what he’s saying, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Emily is someone I never knew I wanted but now crave more than anything. Although she’ll most likely support Delilah and Cormack’s decision to keep our relationship out of the public eye, I don’t want to ask her to do that. Her confidence has flourished so much the past twelve months, I don’t want anything affecting that.
Certain he’s getting through to me, Cormack smiles uneasily before advising he’ll give us the rest of the afternoon to think things over. He’s barely out of the room when Nick’s angry roar bellows through my ears. “Fuck this shit! This is bullshit, Noah. You can’t let them do this!”
It’s only when I spot the regret in his baby blues does reality dawn. He’s not defending my right to declare who I love. He’s in love!
Holy fucking shit, how did I miss this?
Spotting my wide eyes and gaped mouth, Nick snarks, “Shut up, Noah.” He storms out of the room, kicking a chair on his way out. “Just shut the fuck up.”
I stare at the door he walked through for several heart-thrashing seconds, struggling to work out if I’m the only one in the dark about his personal life. When I crank my neck back to Slater and Marcus, I r
ealize how well Nick has kept his relationship hidden. They’re as stunned as me.
“Holy shit, Nick’s in love?!” Slater slaps his knee, his voice cracking from how hard he’s laughing. “The world’s biggest fucking player finally got played.”
Marcus’s nudge to Slater’s shoulder nearly sends him toppling to the floor. “Don’t be an ass.”
When Marcus scoots his chair closer to me, my teeth grit. I’m not up for one of his pep talks right now. He’s always been a let’s sit down and talk shit over guy, but I’m too angry to listen to anyone.
“You can do what you want with my advice once I’ve given it, but you’re going to listen,” he warns when I attempt to bookmark his lecture for another day. “I get you’re pissed; I understand why you want to throw this deal in the trash, but you need to think about this with a clear head. Hate it or not, what they’re saying is true. It might not be right, but it is true. You’ve been in this industry for years, Noah; you know how it works.”
“I’m not a fucking puppet who performs on demand, Marcus. Why can’t the fans just listen to our music without fantasizing that they’ll marry the man singing the lyrics?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s fucked.” His rare use of a curse word shocks me. I’ve never heard him swear before. Clearly, this is frustrating him more than he’s letting on. “Why don’t you talk to Emily and see what she thinks? If she’s fine with it, maybe you will be too.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He just slaps my shoulder in support before exiting the boardroom, passing Slater who’s still pissing himself laughing about his “player got played” comment.
Chapter 27
Noah