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He’s sweat-slicked and trembling. My nose is crushed against his pec. I don’t ever want to let go.
“Libby,” he breathes into my hair. “You’re here.”
If anything, he holds me tighter. It’s okay. I don’t need air. Just him.
I turn my head and find his jaw with my lips. “You asked me to come. In the song. You asked me to come back to you.”
He bursts out in a broken laugh that makes his chest hitch. “You got that? No one else did.”
I close my eyes, let him support me. “No one else matters.”
He shivers harder. “Only you, Libs.”
Suddenly I hear the crowd again, hooting and shouting. Killian must hear them too because he lifts his head, giving them a wave and a smile. I see the blur of stage lights, dozens of phones held overhead, and Jax’s wink. Then Killian hurries me off the stage, refusing to let me go.
He doesn’t stop until we’re alone in a small dressing room.
I don’t know who moves first, but the door closes, and I’m wrapped in him. I’ve missed the way he feels, his taste, the scent of him. His hands bracket my cheeks, his mouth moving over mine.
“I missed you,” he says between frantic kisses. “I missed you so fucking much. I shouldn’t have let you go.” He kisses my eyes, my cheeks, the corner of my ear. “I thought I was setting you free. But it killed me. I need you, Libs. So much.”
“I know.” I cup the back of his neck and squeeze as I meet his gaze. “It was the same for me. I was just…empty.”
Dark, pained eyes search mine. “And then that stupid song. You wouldn’t answer me. I thought—”
“I’m sorry,” I cut in. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just needed to think things through. And I wanted to talk in person.”
He nods before dipping down to rest his forehead against mine. “What are you thinking, baby doll? What do you want?”
“You.” When he jerks, I grip his hard biceps. “I just want to be with you.”
“Good. Because I don’t think I can function anymore unless you’re here.”
“I missed you,” I tell him. I don’t think I can express it enough.
For a long moment he just looks at me. “I made a career off writing songs. They’ve given me awards for my lyrics. And never can I get the message right with you.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“I love you.”
My breath catches in my throat as my heart stops. I exhale in a burst, and he kisses my lips softly. So softly. The tenderness in it breaks me. I nearly sob when he does it again.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say all this time.” He smiles, the barest curve of his lips. “I used to think those were just words. Something I could put in a song. They didn’t mean anything. I get it now. I get it.”
“Killian…”
The tip of his thumb caresses my cheek. “Love breaks your heart, fucks you up—perfect, all-consuming chaos. I didn’t know what to do with that. It felt safer to walk.” He wraps me up in his arms, his eyes on mine. “But it’s also this. Peace, and warmth, and so fucking beautiful, you’ll risk anything to keep it.”
“Killian…” I cup his cheek, run my fingers into his hair. Just hold him. “You do just fine getting your message across. I love you too, you know. So much.”
Oh, God, that smile—it’s pure happiness. “I need you to understand, Libby. You’re my reason, the answer to all questions.”
“And you, my sweet lawn bum, are my home. I’m just wandering unless I’m with you. And I’m so tired, Killian. I need to be home now.”
He takes a deep breath, pressing his lips against my forehead as if he has to ground himself. “I’m here. You’re here.” He ghosts a kiss over my cheek. “We’ll make it work. I’ll take time off and travel with you—”
“I’ve realized something,” I cut in. “I don’t want to be a star. Not at this level. It isn’t me.”
He frowns down at me. “Were you that miserable?”
“No, honey. It was an experience of a lifetime. I wouldn’t change the opportunities you gave me for the world. But these past few months?” I shrug. “Maybe I am my parents’ daughter. All I know is that it isn’t the stardom that lights me up. It’s playing, singing. It’s being with you. Those things matter to me. The rest is just…air.”
Killian’s soft laugh is wry, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “Funny thing, I realized that too.”
I still. “You want to quit?”
“No. But I do want to slow down. I want time with you. Time to enjoy life.” He shakes his head. “Kill John will always be part of me, but I’ve changed. We all have. I don’t know what will happen, but I’m not afraid of it anymore.”
I take a deep breath, press my cheek against his jaw. “You pulled me out of my shell. All that I am now is because of you.”
His fingers thread in my hair, giving the strands a gentle tug. “And you woke me up again. Let’s make a life together, Liberty. It’ll be good. So fucking good.”
I meet his eyes, those coffee dark eyes that always hold promise of sin and sweetness. Excitement tingles over my skin, pulls at my breath. “I can’t wait.”
Epilogue
Killian
The winter grass is the color of toasted sand, stretching toward a slate gray sky. It’s windy these days, the air wet with salt and sea. But on Libby’s farmhouse porch, with the cast-iron stove going, it’s warm enough for me to hang out in jeans and a T-shirt, my bare toes tapping on the worn floorboards.
I’m sitting in a rocker, drinking coffee and inhaling a heaping plate of the best damn biscuits in the world. Looking back on it, I probably fell in love with Libby the first time I ate one of her biscuits.
I tell her this now, and she gives me a look. The kind that says she finds me amusing but doesn’t want to admit it.
“Mama always said a man was led by his stomach and his cock,” she says from the rocking chair at my side, while she idly strums her guitar. “It was just a matter of figuring out which one needs the most appeasing at the moment.”
I take another bite of heavenly baked goodness. “After we eat, you can appease my cock.”
She hums. “Good thing it’s so cute, or I’d take exception to that.”
“Cute? My cock is no longer appeased.”
Libby fights a smile. But her attention is on the Gibson in her hands. It’s my guitar, but she plays it so well. A sweet melody rings out, old-fashioned and happy but nostalgic. Her honey-soft voice joins in as she sings “Sea of Love.”
The sound of her wraps itself around my heart. Her sound is home and hope all rolled in one. It always was. It always will be.
When she finishes, I turn to her. “Was that for me?”
Her smile is soft, beautiful. “They all are.”
It’s a good thing the guys aren’t around to see me welling up. Just yesterday, Rye texted to say it was only a matter of time before Libby and I started looking like the couple in American Gothic, that all I needed was a pitchfork. We sent him a picture of us standing in front of the house, me with pitchfork in hand, both of us flipping him the bird.
We haven’t been completely idle. For the past month, Libby and I have been writing songs. A couple of them are for Kill John, a couple are for Libby’s album. She still doesn’t want the limelight, but Jax, of all people, pointed out that she can have a career on her own terms. So that’s what she’s going to do: write, record, and perform in small venues.
Next week we’re going back to New York. I’ll start trying out the new songs with the guys, and Libby will go to the recording studio. But for now, I’m making the most of our semi-vacation.
I set down my plate and grab my Martin, making a few adjustments. “I’ve got a song. But you have to sing with me.”
“I will if you tell me what you’re playing,” she says.
Grinning, I bite my lip, a thrill of anticipation going through me. “You’ll get it.”
I start the White Stripe
s’ “Hotel Yorba.” By the end of the opening riff, she’s playing along, her rhythm framing my lead. We sing the refrain laughing, playing our guitars double time.
Her eyes are bright when the song ends. “You have that as my ringtone.”
“Yep.” I lay my guitar down. “Set it the second I left this house and you behind.”
“Why that one?”
“Lyrics fit my mood. I, too, just wanted to be back on this porch, alone with you.”
Her expression softens. “Well, here we are.”
“And what about the rest of it, Libs?” I ask, my chest growing tight. “Am I the man you love the most?”
A flush rises over her cheeks as she looks at me, the little spot where her pulse beats on her neck visibly fluttering. She knows the lyrics. She knows what I’m asking. “Yes,” she says, almost shyly.
I’ve had this planned. Doesn’t stop my heart from trying to pound its way out of my chest. Slowly I kneel in front of her, my hands settling on her lush hips. “I’ll love you my whole life, and it won’t feel like enough. So what do you say, Libs? Want to go get married?”
Her smile is my sun. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me. “Where’s my ring, lawn bum?”
I smile against her lips. “Look in my pocket, Elly May.”
Her little jolt of surprise is cute. Did she think I wouldn’t have it? The way her hand shakes as she pulls out the small box tells me she’s as nervous as I am. For a long moment she looks at the vintage gold-and-emerald ring. Then her eyes well up, and she flings her arm around my neck, putting me out of my misery. “Oh, hell. I’m marrying a musician.”
I hold her close, breathe her in. “We’re gonna have so much fun.”
Her laughter is a warm breath against my neck. “Yes, we are. And I’ll love you forever, Killian James. That much I know for certain.”
Thank You!
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Preview of Scottie’s book—subject to change
Sophie
You know those people who Lady Luck always seems to be kissing on the cheek? The ones who get a promotion just for showing up to work? Who win that awesome raffle prize? The person who finds a hundred-dollar bill on the ground? Yeah, that’s not me. And it’s probably not most of us. Lady Luck is a selective bitch.
But today? Lady Luck has finally turned her gaze upon me. And I want to bow down in gratitude. Because today, I’ve been upgraded to first class for my flight to London. It’s due to overbooking, and who knows why they picked me, but they did. First fucking class, baby. I’m so giddy, I practically dance to my seat.
And, oh, what a beautiful seat it is, all plush cream leather and burled wood paneling—though I’m guessing it’s fake wood for safety reasons. Not that it matters. It’s a little self-contained pod, complete with a cubby for my bag and shoes, a bar, an actual reading lamp, and a widescreen TV.
I sink into the seat with a sigh. It’s a window seat, sectioned off from my neighbor with a frosted glass panel I can lower with the touch of a button. Or the two seats can become one cozy cabin by closing the glossy panel that sections off the aisle. It reminds me of an old-fashioned luxury train cabin.
I’m one of the first people on board, so I give in to temptation and rifle through all the little goodies they’ve left me: mints, fuzzy socks, sleep mask, and—ooh—a little bag of skin care products. Next I play around with my seat, raising and lowering my privacy screen—that is until it makes an ominous-sounding click. The screen freezes an inch above the divider and refuses to rise again.
Cringing, I snatch my hand away and busy myself with removing my shoes and flipping through the first class menu. It’s long, and everything looks delicious. Oh man, how am I supposed to go back to the cattle-roundup, meat-or-chicken-in-a-tin hell that is economy class after this?
I’m debating whether to get a preflight champagne cocktail or glass of white wine when I hear the man’s voice. It’s deep, crisply British, and very annoyed.
“What is that woman doing in my seat?”
My neck tenses, but I don’t lift my head. I’m assuming he means me. His voice is coming from somewhere over my head, and there are only male passengers in here aside from me.
And he is wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m in my seat. I checked twice, pinched myself, checked again, and then finally sat down. I know I’m where I’m supposed to be—just not how I got away with it. My fingers grip the menu as I make a pretense of flipping through it. I’m really eavesdropping at this point. The flight attendant’s response is too low to hear, but his isn’t.
“I expressly purchased two seats on this flight. Two. So that I would not be seated next to anyone else.”
Well, that’s…decadent? Whacked? I struggle not to make a face. Who does that? Is it really so awful to sit next to someone? Has this guy seen economy? We can count each other’s nose hairs back there. Here, my chair is so wide, I’m a good foot away from his stupid chair.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the flight attendant answers in a near purr, which is weird. She should be annoyed. Maybe it’s all part of the kiss-the-first-class-passengers’-asses-because-they-paid-a-shit-ton-to-be-here program. “The flight is overbooked, and all seats are spoken for.”
“Which is why I purchased two seats,” he snaps.
She murmurs something soothing again. I can’t hear because two men walking past me to get to their seats are talking about stock options. They pass, and I hear Mr. Snooty again.
“This is unacceptable.”
A movement to my right, and I nearly jump. I see the red suit coat of the flight attendant as she bends close, her arm at the man’s screen button. Heat invades my cheeks, even as she starts to explain, “There’s a screen for privacy…”
She stops because the screen isn’t rising.
I burrow my nose in the menu.
“It doesn’t bloody work?” This from Snooty.
The rest goes just about as well as you’d expect. He rants, she placates, I hide between page one and two of the menu.
“Perhaps I can persuade someone to exchange seats?” The helpful flight attendant offers.
Yes, please. Fob him off on someone else.
“What difference does it make?” Snooty snaps. “The point was to have an empty seat next to mine.”
I’d love to suggest he wait for the next flight and save us all a headache, but that’s not in the cards. The standoff ends with the jerk plopping into his seat with an exasperated huff. He must be big, because I feel the whoosh of air as he does it.
And I feel the heat of his glare just before he turns away.
Fucker.
Slapping my menu down, I decide, Fuck it; I’m having some fun with this. What can they do? They’re loading the plane; my seat is secure.
I find a stick of gum in my purse and pop it in my mouth. A few chews and I have some superior gum-smacking going on. Only then do I turn his way.
And freeze mid-chew, momentarily stunned by the sight sitting next to me. Because, good God, no one has the right to be this hot and this much of a jerk. This guy is one-hundred-percent the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And it’s strange because his features aren’t perfect or gentle. No, they’re bold and strong—a jaw sharp enough to cut steel, firm chin, high cheekbones, and a bold nose that’s almost too big but fits his face perfectly.
I’d expected a whey-faced, graying aristocrat, but he’s tanned, his coal back hair falling over his brow.
Sculpted, pouty lips are compressed in irritation as he scowls down at the magazine in his hand.
But he just as clearly feels my stare—the fact that I’m gaping like a speared fish probably doesn’t help—and he turns to glare. I’m hit with the full force of all that masculine beauty.
His eyes are aqua blue. His thick, dark brows draw together, a storm brewing on his face. He’s about to blast me. The thought hits along with another: I’d better make this good.
“Jesus,” I blurt out, lifting my hand as if to shield my eyes. “It’s like looking into the sun.”
“What?” he snaps, those laser-bright eyes narrowing.
Oh, this will be fun.
“Just stop, will you?” I squint at him. “You’re too hot. It’s too much to take.” This is true, though I’d never have the guts to say so in normal circumstances.
“Are you quite well?” he intones, as if he thinks the opposite.
“No, you’ve nearly rendered me blind.” I flap a hand. “Do you have an off switch? Maybe put it on low?”
His nostrils flare, his skin going a shade darker. “Lovely. I’m stuck next to a mad woman.”
“Don’t tell me you’re unaware of the dazzling effect you have on the world.” I give him a look of wide-eyed wonder. At least I hope that’s what I’m doing.
He flinches when I grasp the divider between us and lean in a bit. Hell, he smells good—like expensive cologne and fine wool. “You probably have women dropping at your feet like flies.”
“At least dropped flies are silent,” he mutters, furiously flipping through his magazine. “Madam, do me the favor of refraining from speaking to me for the remainder of the flight.”
“Are you a duke? You talk like a duke.”
His head jerks as if he wants to look my way but he manages to keep his gaze forward, his lips compressed so tightly they’re turning white at the edges. A travesty.