I take the frozen vegetables from his face and touch his cheek as I look deep into his beautiful blue eyes. “I’m so sorry. What a mess I’ve caused.”
“I’m not sorry. I don’t give a damn about the tour or the punch. All I care about is you.” He brushes his knuckles along my check. The simple contact feels so good, I shut my eyes and breathe in a sigh of relief. If I were a cat, I’d purr. “Where does this leave us?” he asks.
My heart fills with hope. “Is there still an us? You left the bar with someone the other night. I thought maybe you’d moved on.”
“Nothing happened with her.” He weaves his fingers with mine and looks down. We’re both quiet for a long moment. “How could anything happen with anyone else when I’m in love with you?”
My eyes jump to his. “You are?”
“I am.”
Time stands still all around us. “I love you, too.”
That slow, lazy, dimpled smile breaks through the last barrier of my heart. “You gave me my first screaming orgasm, I’m going to give you your last.”
“Is that so?” I grin.
He stands and scoops me up off the couch. “We’re never hiding again. And this time, there’ll be no hand covering your mouth—I want to hear you moan my name while I lick every inch of you.” He kicks open the door to my bedroom with his foot.
Setting me down on the center of the bed, he stares with a look that I can only describe as ardor. His voice is so soft, so heartfelt, so pure when he speaks again, I almost liquefy.
One step at a time, back behind the line
We can’t stop it, no, doesn’t matter we try
Walk to the blur, yes, you’re gonna be mine
Say we’re still friends, we all know that’s a lie
You doubt it’s true, but it’s too late to turn
The minute I touch you, our bodies align
You’re like fire, yet I run toward the burn
We’ve crossed the line, now you’re forever mine.
“You finished the last verse.”
He smiles. “Now do you believe me? There’s no going back once you’ve crossed into the blur.”
“I don’t want to go back. I want to go forward.”
“Me too, baby. Me too. But right now, I’m going to go up and down.”
Epilogue
Lucky
“I remember when my coffee used to be ready for me when I woke up,” I tease as Flynn saunters into the galley area from the bedroom. He’s shirtless, sweats hanging low on his waist. Seriously, the sight never gets old. Not for a minute.
He pours himself a steaming mug and refills mine before sliding in across from me. “What are you working on?”
I close the notebook I’ve been scribbling in all morning. “Nothing.”
His eyebrows arch. “Nothing, huh? Then let me see.”
“No.”
He reaches and I swat his hand away.
“Why can’t I see?”
“You’ll see. Just not now.”
He pouts.
“The pout isn’t going to work either.”
“No?”
“No.”
He grins and leans forward, as if he’s going to tell me a secret, then I feel his hand under the table slip inside the leg of my shorts. “How about this?” Truly, the man has magical fingers. And not just on the guitar and keyboard. His thumb presses into my clit and for a few seconds I succumb to my weakness—his touch. But then I realize his other hand is slowly slipping the notebook from my loosened grip.
“Not gonna work.”
“Oh, it’s gonna work. Give me a minute.”
Dear lord, I’m in trouble when he pulls out the big guns—the cocky half grin and full dimples. His dexterous fingers dip below my panties and he runs two fingers up and down my center.
“Feels like it’s already working.”
I shake my head but don’t try to push his stroking fingers away. When he lifts the fingers that he just coated with my moisture to his mouth and obscenely sucks them, I’m near opening the damn notebook and reading him what I was working on. Luckily, he’s quickly forgotten the notebook, too.
“Spread your legs wider.” He leans across the table so our mouths are lined up, but he doesn’t kiss me.
Fortunately, I hesitate, because otherwise Nolan would have caught Flynn’s fingers back inside of me. When will we learn to control ourselves?
“Mornin’,” Nolan grunts.
“How many times do I have to tell you, put some fucking pants on before you come out here?”
He looks down, confused. “I do have pants on.”
“No. That’s underwear. And you’re sporting morning wood.”
Nolan scratches his head and looks down again. I turn my head, but only after getting an eyeful. “Oh. Sorry, man. I’m just grabbing some juice.”
I take the opportunity to pack away my notebook and laptop, hoping out of sight is out of mind.
“We’ll be there in about an hour,” Flynn says. “Don’t forget I’m crashing at your place tonight.”
“Fine. But I’m not putting pants on in my place. You get to make the rules on the tour bus, I get to make ‘em in Chez Nolan.”
Flynn grumbles and Nolan goes back to his bunk. “You know this is ridiculous. Kicking me out of our place.”
“It’s tradition. The groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”
“Since when are we following tradition? I proposed in front of fifteen thousand people, and that little peanut growing in your belly isn’t because you’re a virgin.”
I crinkle the napkin on the table and throw it at his nose. Flynn’s not wrong. We haven’t exactly taken the traditional route to get to where we are today. The day after the incident at Lucky’s, our lives turned into a media circus. Pictures of the fight between Dylan and Flynn were sold to tabloids and our faces were flashing on TV for days. While it gave us an excuse to stay holed up in my apartment, I was nervous about what it might do to Flynn’s long-term career. He, of course, was not. Unlike me, the man could seriously shrug off almost anything. He stayed true to his “everything happens for a reason” mantra and kept doing what he always did—writing songs, playing music and enjoying life day by day.
Not long after, the reason everything had happened came to light. Apparently, the old adage that there’s no such thing as bad publicity is true. In Like Flynn’s album sales doubled the week after the media frenzy, and within a month the band had its first Billboard Hot 100 top-ten hit. Things steamrolled from there. Instead of dumping In Like Flynn, Pulse Records asked the band to headline its own tour. It started out slow…twenty-two shows in smallish arenas…but with each city they visited, another two were added. By the time the band finished the last show yesterday, they’d played one hundred and eleven shows, and the last ninety were consecutive sell-outs.
Billboard just posted its predictions for the top-grossing tours of the year. In Like Flynn is slated to come in at number three—one rung above Easy Ryder. Speaking of which, four months after our split, Dylan Ryder wed a retired porn star—Jamie something—in a shotgun wedding. It wasn’t confirmed how far along she was, but from the looks of her belly at the wedding, I’d guess she was already pregnant when we broke up. Everything happens for a reason.
Three months ago, Flynn proposed to me in front of a sold-out crowd in Miami. At the close of the show, I was standing stage-side when he told the audience that the American Airlines Arena was a very special place to him. His words were cryptic; he spoke of a fearless city and how the city had given him his first real kiss. Only I knew he was referring to me conquering my fear and walking on stage for the first time, and the first kiss we’d shared right in the very place he was standing. Then he treated the audience to an exclusive first—I hadn’t even known he’d set the “Blur” lyrics we’d finished together to music. By the time he was done playing the song, I was an emotional mess. I was just so overwhelmed with love for the man and so joyful that I’d found him, I didn’t realize what he was doing when he asked the audience for quiet and began speaking. I’m not sure who was more shocked when I ran onto the stage to accept his proposal…him or me. Who knew I was ready to make the final leap and walk on a stage in front of an arena full of people? Flynn, that’s who.