I spin back around, intent on going after the guy again, but the same mountain of muscle is already dragging him from the room. Lucky prick. Otherwise he’d be spending the night in the hospital.

Chance starts clearing the room, but Holly speaks up. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I can finish the meet and greet. They’ve been waiting.”

I step closer and frame her face with my hands, my thumbs wiping away the smears of red on her lips and cheek. “You don’t need to do that.”

“They’re my fans. They’re the reason I have a career, and the only reason I’ll continue to have a career. It’s no big deal. It’s not like it’s the first time some guy has decided he wanted a kiss.”

My thoughts turn volcanic. “That security I mentioned? You will have two people on you at all times when you’re in a venue. That shit isn’t happening again.”

“It’s not necessary,” she argues.

I lean in and murmur, “It’s absolutely necessary. And if you don’t want me to kiss the fuck out of you right now to erase that asshole’s taste from your lips, you better say so pretty damn quick.”

“But the fans—”

“Let them watch. You’re mine. I don’t care who sees.”

Her mouth drops open into a small O, but she doesn’t voice a protest.

I take that as my green light and lower my lips to hers, but I don’t crush them to her like that motherfucker did. I kiss her softly. Gently. Softer and more gently than I’ve ever kissed her before. And in that moment, I wonder why I haven’t taken the time to savor her.

Her lips soften, her mouth opens, and my tongue slips inside, teasing and stroking hers. I release her slowly. Her closed eyelids flutter open, her brown eyes soft and warm.

She swallows as I pull away. “Thank you. I didn’t realize I needed that.”

“I didn’t realize I needed that so much either.”

I lower my hands from her face and step back. “I’ll let you get back to your fans then.”

The bossy woman from earlier steps up with an open bottle of water, a mirror, and lipstick. “Take a drink, then we’ll get you fixed up. But we need to pick up the pace. We’re running out of time.”

Holly’s eyes stay on mine as she accepts the water and takes a reluctant sip. I step away and return to my corner.

Chance has already arranged for someone to clean up the shattered remains of the beer bottle I dropped when I lunged at the prick kissing Holly. He’s holding out another beer when I return to the corner. As I grab it and take a long pull, he pats me on the shoulder.

“You just might do, Bill. You just might do.”

The heat of the lights.

The rhythmic beat of the bass guitar and the drums.

The sound of the crowd singing along to the lyrics of my first single.

I blink back tears as I hold the microphone out and empty my lungs on the final note. The lights go dark, and for a second the venue is silent before screams erupt. I close my eyes and bite my lip, laughing silently to myself.

This.

This is what it’s all about. This feeling makes it all worth it. This feeling is part of the reason why I walked into a hotel room and married a perfect stranger only hours later. Because I can’t imagine never feeling like this again.

I let my head fall back and stare up at the blackness before the roadies start rushing around the stage and clearing my stuff out. I take a deep breath, and my mind instantly goes to the man waiting offstage.

I felt his eyes on me the entire time. Before tonight, I might have worried that Creighton would spend the entire set watching and judging me, but his actions in the meet-and-greet room tilted everything off its axis. Not just the fact that he went after the drunk punk who decided he wanted a kiss, but Creighton’s own kiss after that. I expected the caveman or the possessive asshole, but what I got was something altogether different.

He’s already changing, and I still haven’t figured out the first Creighton I met. All day, he’s been nothing like I imagined he would be. He hasn’t once tried to make today about him or his business. He’s been, for the most part, at my side and supportively following me around.

Don’t expect it to last, Holly. Right now this relationship is a novelty to him. It’ll wear off soon enough.

He’s a thirty-three-year-old billionaire; how could he possibly be content to follow me around? He has an empire to run, and I don’t know how he can possibly run it from a tour bus. There’s no way he would have made it through the long haul before our Christmas break. Part of me wished this second leg of the tour was longer so I could let it test him.

And then the cynic in me—or maybe it’s the realist—also chimes in with much more pertinent and troubling questions.

What if he didn’t like the show? What if the best part of me isn’t good enough for him? Then what do I have to offer?

Self-doubt eats away the after-show high I’m riding, because what else do I have to offer? My pretty face and my apparently magic pussy? Is my only use in being seen—with my legs spread—and not heard?

The questions echo on repeat, kicking my heart rate up faster, until all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. At least that drowns out the sound of my mama’s voice telling me I’ll never be anything more than a girl from the trailer park, no matter how many stages I sing on.

A roadie accidentally clips me on the shoulder, and I stumble back into reality.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine. I’m in the way.”

I regain my balance and walk toward the edge of the stage, trying to reinforce the crumbling walls of my confidence and self-respect.

Thousands of fans were screaming my name. Singing along. Begging for more. What is one man’s opinion compared to that? But he’s not just any man. He’s my husband.

Sweet baby Jesus. Why did I do this? I thought I could marry him and be unaffected, but already I’m letting the thought of his disapproval drive what little hard-won self-assurance I have into the ground.

With JC, I never had to worry about that. But I was the girl who chose to jump from a fake, mostly-gay boyfriend to a very real, very out-of-my-league husband.

I search the edge of the stage and see Creighton leaning against a speaker. Every woman in the vicinity has her gaze riveted on him, and I don’t blame them. His arms are crossed, and his golden tan contrasts with the rolled-up cuffs of his white dress shirt. Dark hair is sprinkled across his defined muscles. Even in jeans, which I’m still shocked he owns, he manages to look every inch the ridiculously rich playboy.